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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28846506">Witching Hour</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/proudspires/pseuds/proudspires'>proudspires</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>To The Bone [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ancient Names sequelfic so you KNOW we yeeted canon out the window, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, Depiction of relationships that aren't exactly healthy, Dunno if there's a redemption arc in here yet or not, Enemies to Lovers to Enemies to... Lovers?, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Highly Canon Divergent, John Seed is creepy but I've made someone creepier, Pining, Slow Burn, So many cults, Some religious blasphemy, These two idiots share one single braincell and still can't get their shit together, emotional/mental manipulation, general horror, this isn't really a redemption story, unreliable narrators</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:28:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>104,606</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28846506</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/proudspires/pseuds/proudspires</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>—To fall like a wounded animal into a place that was meant for revelations.</p><p>There are many injustices that John Seed will tolerate. The departure of his wife and child is not one of them.</p><p>Or: Elliot Honeysett just wants to live her life in quiet seclusion, and there's no way in Hell that's happening.</p><p>(Ancient Names Sequelfic.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Jacob Seed/Original Female Character(s), Joseph Seed/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>To The Bone [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2115237</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. genesis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi friends! Yes, I'm aware that this is a week early. I apologize. I wanted to get this chapter out while I had the thoughts in my head; not a lot of exciting stuff happens, most of it is just... Setting things up for where we're going and where we're going to be, but I hope that you enjoy it nonetheless! Thank you, of course, to my beta reader Starcrier; this chapter was in a lot rougher shape before she got to it. If you have the chance, please check out her writing--she is just absolutely incredible! </p><p>And thank you to everyone who did me the GREAT blessing of reviewing and supporting Ancient Names. I really can't believe I'm out here!! With people interested in what I have to say about this fucking nutso canon-divergent universe I am building!</p><p>Quote in the summary is from "Paths of the Mirror" by Alejandra Pizarnik.</p><p>Please feel free to reach out to me anytime at my <a href="https://proudspires.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>, I'm on there often posting edits and memes and just having a grand old time. I'd love to visit! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This is a very old story.”</p><p>It was cold, and dark, and the night stayed cloudy and moonless. As Helmi picked up the gun clasped between the two corpses, she glanced furtively in the brunette’s direction. Her gaze was impossible to read, the severe lines of her face accented only by the dim, flickering light of the neon sign; Kajsa had always looked like this, though, sharp like broken glass was, reflecting only and not taking anything in. <em>Protected.</em></p><p>Helmi lifted her gaze back to the dead pair at her feet, up to the neon sign that blinked <em>The Spread Eagle, </em>and then down and stopping at the words written in dried blood on the paneling.</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>WRATH, DO YOU WANT TO BLOOM IN ME?</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>“You and me,” Kajsa murmured, and now it was <em>her</em> turn to watch. “Them. Eden’s Gate, and the Mother. All of it has happened before and will happen again.” She sighed, as though it troubled her, the dark arch of her brows pulling together to knit at the center of her forehead. With the only source of the light being the bar’s sign, her skin was an eerie, pallid red-and-blue, darting and worming across her expression. “We’ll turn this world into winter, Hel. The two of us.”</p><p>Helmi watched her for a long moment. “Kajsa—”</p><p>“Douse them.” She stuck her hands into the pockets of her sweater, turning and stepping over the two other dead bodies they had dragged from where they had been propped up against the wall. “I want this place in ashes by sunrise.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Kajsa didn’t wait for her to begin walking to the car, idling still a safe distance away. Helmi preferred it that way. For a few minutes—and that’s all it would take, really, to unlatch the canister lid and toss the gasoline over the bodies, against the paneling of the wall, atop the roof—she could turn her brain off, forget the way Kajsa’s eyes see straight through her, forget the bodies of her brothers and sisters as she tossed the match on them and watched the flame eat through the fuel.</p><p>Hungry. A beast. <em>Like me, </em>Helmi thought absently, as the flames licked at the sky, <em>reaching reaching reaching</em>. Watching them felt like watching the souls of her brothers and sisters reaching for the stars, carried away in wisps of foul-smelling smoke. She wondered, <em>do they feel it now? Do they feel the sting, the burn? When their bodies haven’t been given to It, do they feel it all after?</em></p><p>“Come, Helmi,” Kajsa called from the car. “We have a long drive ahead of us.”</p><p>They had been at it for hours, this methodical and clinical extinguishing of bodies. Every spot that they had agreed and picked out on the map in such an instance was now blacked out. <em>Burned. </em>Their brothers and sisters had done what was expected of them, and for that, they would not be forced to rot—they would be turned to charcoal, to ash, only blood and bone spent.</p><p>Her feet carried her back to the car as the flames began to devour more than just flesh, crawling along the rooftop of the Spread Eagle and popping in the still, quiet night. Kajsa’s hand came up to her face and cradled her cheek, fixing her with <em>those</em> eyes: dark eyes, shades of gray and glassy, like a shark.</p><p>“<em>Ingenting under solen är beständigt,” </em>she said, the pad of her thumb brushing across Helmi’s cheekbone. For a second, the older woman almost looked like—well, looked like <em>something,</em> an unknown flicker of emotion crossing her face—but then it cleared.</p><p>Hel watched her curiously, waiting until the hand against her cheek dropped before she said, “I know, Kajsa.”</p><p>Kajsa nodded. Only once, short and brisk, the gesture as sharp as the lines of her face. “Make sure you do not forget.”</p><p><em>I won’t, </em>Helmi thought, but did not say. Kajsa had never believed words before, and she would not start now. Helmi would just have to show her that she had not forgotten.</p><p>She looked back; the singeing of flesh fizzing in the air, the crackle of devouring flame whispering to her. A cleansing fire. Their bodies weren’t given to The Father, but they had given in another way, with their lives—in a way that still mattered.</p><p>“Kajsa,” Hel said, bringing the woman’s attention back to her, “do they feel it, still? The fire, when they’re gone?”</p><p>“Perhaps,” Kajsa replied, jaw absently working something wadded just in the hollow of her throat; words she wanted to say, and could not. Or would not. It was always hard to tell, with Kajsa. “It’s not for us to know. The after belongs only to the dead.” The dark-haired woman opened the driver’s side of the car, pulling her gloves off of her hands and tossing them inside. “Get in the car, Helmi. I want to keep track of that interloper.”</p><p><em>Interloper. </em>The kinder of the words that what remained of them had been using for John Seed and his merry band of fuck-ups and patience-testers. Heretics, zealots, <em>apostate</em>—</p><p>The list was unending. Helmi wished she could run out of disdain, but she knew that she would not be able to. Sorrow and mourning for those they had lost came in absolutes, in fixed amounts, but the bitterness persisted. She swung into the passenger side of the car, shutting it against the smell of burning skin, and exhaled slowly through her nose.</p><p>Kajsa pulled the car away from the sight. Hopefully it would be just as the harbinger wished—by sunrise, Hope County would be leveled by fire and flame, nothing but ash and ruined structure left. <em>If</em> the scraps of Eden’s Gate didn’t try and douse it out. <em>If</em> they didn’t continue to interfere.</p><p>She glanced out the window to the sky. The tires of the car hit the highway, and Kajsa clicked the cruise control on, and as tendrils of smoke clung to the stars, the clouds parted and the light of the new moon filtered down. Just a sliver of her light, but cold and cruel and reliable all the same.</p><p>“It’s pleased,” Kajsa said lightly.</p><p>Hel made a low noise of agreement, closing her eyes as she leaned her head against the glass. “Are <em>you?”</em></p><p>“Not yet,” the older woman murmured. When Hel glanced over at her, her eyes were fixed on the road; the headlights switched off, and in the far distance, she could see the tail lights of another vehicle glowing red as blood in the darkness. <em>Seed, </em>Hel thought through the haze of her exhaustion.</p><p>“But very soon, I will be.”</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>
  <em>One Week Later</em>
</p><p>“Are you warm enough? Where’s your scarf? Elliot?”</p><p>The door was only inches away, and yet—somehow—she’d managed to not make it out without the barrage of questions that typically accompanied any of her departures. Taking in a soft breath, Elliot closed her eyes for a moment, leaving her hand on the door handle.</p><p>“I am <em>sufficiently</em> bundled,” she promised, turning to regard her mother, standing in the foyer. “I don’t need a scarf between the front porch and the car.”</p><p>“Scarf, please,” her mother murmured, deigning to set her martini glass down in order to pluck it off of the coat rack. Elliot watched the movement curiously—not because she had never seen her mother set aside an alcoholic beverage before, but because these days it seemed more often than not that she was beginning to slow down on them; a thing which Elliot never thought she would see. Part of it might have been the sudden upheaval of having her grown, child-carrying daughter and dog suddenly move in with her, and part of it may have just been, well, <em>time</em>—but either way, she didn’t think she could ask.</p><p>There were some things that were just better left unsaid.</p><p>“Okay,” Elliot relented tiredly. “I’ll wear the scarf.”</p><p>“It’s not just about you anymore, bunny.”</p><p>“I know, mama.”</p><p>“So wear the scarf—”</p><p>“I <em>am,”</em> she insisted irritably, making a great show of flinging the scarf around her neck. <em>I know it’s not just about me, </em>something prickly inside of her said, <em>I fucking know, it’s never been about me, and it’s especially not about me now.</em></p><p>Scarlet eyed her for a moment, wary. <em>This</em> had been happening a lot more now, too—these odd, lingering looks her mother had begun to favor her with. It was the same way Sheriff Whitehorse had looked at her, and the same way Burke had looked at her that last time before she—</p><p>Well.</p><p>Forcing her tone to lightness, Elliot said, “Happy?”</p><p>“Hardly,” her mother replied tartly. “No reason to be spending time around horses in your delicate condition. And you’ve been so irritable as of late—”</p><p>“It’s supposed to be good for anxiety.” Elliot glossed over the additional barb blithely, years of muscle-memory kicking in now.</p><p>“Getting some <em>sleep</em> would help your anxiety.” <em>Jab, jab, duck, </em>her mother’s tell-tale movements, skittering across their conversation like so many little spiders. It had been so long before this that she’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be engaging in a constant verbal battle with someone who was supposed to love her.</p><p>That wasn’t necessarily true, <em>either. </em>She had plenty of experience ducking and parrying verbal punches from someone who claimed to love her, as of late.</p><p>“I don’t—” Puffing out a sharp breath through her nose, Elliot passed a hand over her face. Sleep had not been her friend, not before and certainly not now. Too many strange, unnerving dreams about handsome, blue-eyed men with flowers blooming out of their eyes for her liking. “I’m not taking medication that’s not prescribed to me, mama. Sorry. But it’s like you said, it’s not just about me anymore. Right?”</p><p>Scarlet picked up her martini glass, waving her hand as she turned to head back into the living room where the fire still glowed warm and hungry in the hearth. Yes, there was nothing she would have preferred more than to give in to the despair and apathy welling up inside of her, curl up under the blankets in her bedroom, safe and tucked away in a perfect bubble; but she couldn’t, because stronger than that apathy was an uneasiness, anxiety that vibrated just under her skin.</p><p><em>Not safe, </em>it told her, during the day when she was trying to relax and at night when she was trying to sleep. <em>Not safe, not us.</em></p><p>That was the real gut-punch of the whole thing. Before, the paranoia, the anxiety, the hyper-sensitivity—they had all been things that served a purpose. Her body had been ready for constant assault because she had <em>been</em> under constant assault. But now? Now, she was in bumfuck-nowhere Georgia, with no bills to pay, no job to maintain, only one task: be healthy, for baby. Be happy, and healthy, and do it for baby, because that was her only responsibility. She could no longer function as a single autonomous unit because she was <em>not, </em>by all intents and purposes, a single. Autonomous. Unit. And yet?</p><p>And yet.</p><p><em>And yet, </em>the off switch was broken, somewhere in her brain. Broken, or locked behind bars, or somewhere that she couldn’t reach it. Her brain still liked to think she was under constant assault. And if Scarlet’s verbal fencing skills were anything to go by, maybe it was a fair judgment of the situation.</p><p>“...standing there for?” Scarlet asked from the couch, her voice filtering in through some strange fuzziness that had erupted in her brain.</p><p>“Just—thinking,” Elliot managed, forcing a smile onto her face. She could tell it fell flat from the way her mother regarded her, but she cleared her throat quickly and glanced at Boomer, waiting patiently by the door. “You gonna take care of mama, Boomer?”</p><p>“He certainly will not.”</p><p>“Protect the homestead.”</p><p>“Elliot—”</p><p>“He can’t come with me to the barn,” Elliot informed her mother primly. “He’ll be well-behaved here, I promise.”</p><p>Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. It was something that couldn’t be argued, Boomer’s manners, and so finally she said, “Just don’t be gone long, then.”</p><p>Nodding, Elliot opened the front door and slipped out, keys clutched in her hands. The first snowfall of the winter had hit; it was still fresh and powdery, crunching underfoot, and by the time she was carefully pulling out of the driveway, she had nearly forgotten about the strange static fuzz rattling around in her head.</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>
  <em>Elliot lifts the glass of champagne to her mouth. Here, John can see the wedding band on her finger—gold and simple, for now. He’d promised her something nicer after things quieted down. She’d said, of course, that she didn’t need anything nicer; she was happy with the one she had. With him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He thinks that she has never looked so beautiful, bathed in the romantic glow of fairy lights, hair pinned back and the white of the wedding dress dappling lace across her skin. And wearing the ring, of course.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>I love you, </strong>he wants to say, but cannot. <strong>I love you so much, </strong>he wants to say, but does not; he watches her set the flute down on the table and he opens his mouth to say it. He has to tell her—she has to know, all of those things he had said, he didn’t mean them. He loves her. He has to tell her so that she can know.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>John reaches for her and opens his mouth. She lets him take her face, lashes fluttering closed; when he tries to say it, when he wills the words out of his lungs, he is choking, choking, choking, the sickening scent of flowers rushing over him and he heaves.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The petals spill from his mouth. They tumble to the ground between them. <strong>You’re mine, </strong>he wants to say, <strong>I love you, </strong>but the petals choke him on their way out, billowing out from his lungs and tripping on their way out of him, blowing out in gorgeous baby-soft puffs that leave his throat shredded from the inside out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His hands find her shoulders. He clutches her, because he can’t breathe—there are too many of them, these flowers, each labored attempt at breath making it worse. He’s choking, and Elliot grabs his face with her hands as he struggles to keep his eyes open.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She shoves her fingers into his mouth, packing the petals against the back of his throat, and he can’t breathe, and she says—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I told you that you couldn’t have both.”</em>
</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>John jolted awake, the sound of the alarm on his phone echoing in the tight space of his car. The dream lingered, stuck somewhere in the back of his throat and on his ribs like a heavy meal yet to be digested. It took a few blinks for him to really gather himself, remember where he was, who he was, what it was he had been doing. It felt like he could still taste the petals in his mouth.</p><p><em>Wicked devil, </em>he thought tiredly, the image of Elliot looking down at him—wretched, and unyielding, as he choked to death—burned behind his eyelids. <em>Even in my dreams, you’re ungrateful.</em></p><p>On his way out of Hope County, he’d dropped the Eden’s Gate truck for some poor shmuck’s sedan. It <em>certainly</em> wasn’t the kind of car he was used to driving in, and not for long periods of time, but he couldn’t risk a cop tagging his plates and finding out that the car was owned by him.</p><p>Not that he thought news of what had happened in Hope County had reached anyone yet. The government had their hands full as it was, he was sure—if the news on the radio had anything to say about it, anyway—so he imagined that the extraction of a few “criminals” out of Hope County, Montana had hit the backburner.</p><p>Passing a hand over his face tiredly, John tossed the book he’d fallen asleep reading onto the passenger seat and shut the alarm off on his phone. The book joined a collection of others, the titles including but not limited to <em>Unconditional Parenting, The Whole-Brain Child, </em>and other such riveting pieces, set to guide him along the path of parenthood.</p><p>He had been in Weyfield for three days; finding Elliot’s ancestral home hadn’t been hard, considering there were only a handful of houses that said <em>rich </em>by their exterior, and fewer less of those that looked to have been constructed so many years ago. In fact, the house that he had narrowed down looked the epitome of a wealthy Southerner’s ancient household; big front columns binding the two-story structure together, a sweeping front porch, and what he could only assume was a painstakingly-maintained garden when it wasn’t covered in a healthy foot of snow.</p><p>But more than that—more than the house, and the snow, and the stupid, shitty car he’d been living in for the last week—was <em>Elliot.</em></p><p>His sleep schedule was fucked up because <em>her </em>sleep schedule was fucked up. He’d only caught glimpses of her through the windows, on occasion, and as much as he wanted to go charging into that house and demand she come back to Hope County with him, John knew he had to go about this <em>very</em> carefully. Elliot had willfully left him to be arrested, and she had willfully lied to him, and she had <em>willfully and spitefully</em> informed him of her pregnancy, and that meant that there were too many factors for him to think he could just breeze in and out. He was going to have to be diligent about everything—and that meant learning as much as he could before she figured out he was there.</p><p>It made him feel psychotic. It made him <em>feel</em> like a madman, but he supposed that was to be expected. <em>That’s amore.</em></p><p>He had figured out precisely three things since his arrival in Weyfield: Elliot was staying with a woman he could only presume to be her mother, she had yet to make any friends, and she wasn’t sleeping. Every single night—or morning—she was up, moving around on the second floor and sometimes the first. It was nearly Christmas, now, which meant that she had to be at least nearly five weeks. What was she doing, up and about all hours of the night?</p><p>Now, watching Elliot haul herself into the jeep, bundled up and puffing hot air onto her hands, he thought, <em>where are you going without the beast, huh? Haven’t seen you spend a second away from him.</em></p><p>John watched the car pull carefully out of the driveway and then head down the road. He’d been parked beneath the cover of a snowy row of cedars, the air inside as cold as outside by the time he’d woken out of his tenuous sleep. Now, as the sight of the dark Jeep disappeared down the residential lane and turned onto the street that would take her out to the country, he turned the key in the ignition.</p><p>The car came to life with a shuddering groan. It took a few tries to dig himself out of the fresh snowfall, tires skidding and the orange light reminding him—time and time again—that the tires were having a hard time. <em>Thanks, you piece of shit, </em>he thought tiredly, finally pulling out of the little ditch and setting off down the road. He let a few cars go ahead of him before he turned down the same street Elliot had, driving until the houses became fewer and fewer and it was more pastureland; three cars ahead, he saw Elliot pull down a long drive that wound for an eternity until a...barn?</p><p>
  <em>A fucking stable?</em>
</p><p>“What the fuck,” he said under his breath, sighing. He should have known—of course she’d find some reason to spend her afternoon around stinking animals. Was that safe for her to be doing? Being around horses?</p><p>He pulled a slow u-turn and found a turn out at the top of the hill—close enough to see when she was leaving, but not close enough that he could be seen if she was pulling out. As soon as he shut the car off, the engine ticking as it cooled, John settled back against the seat and let out a long, suffering breath.</p><p>Well. He supposed that she should have been grateful she wasn’t leading a particularly exciting life, but he wouldn’t have minded something a <em>little</em> more exciting than this. Something more than staying holed up in her mother’s home—something which he was sure she did not enjoy, if the way she had spoken of her mother before had been any indication—or the occasional walk down the lane with the hound.</p><p>It didn’t matter, in the end. Once he felt confident he knew what was going on, once John had figured out what exactly he was up against when it came to fetching Elliot from this Stepford nightmare of a back-water-nobody-town, he’d get a couple of extra resources gathered and snag Elliot hook, line, and sinker.</p><p>But first, he would just have to wait.</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>It was pretty easy to find a place that wanted someone to come and brush their horses for free. Elliot had called around to a few places at the behest of her doctor, who had been displeased when she explained no, she did not want to speak to a therapist, but yes, she would take the suggestion of seeking out other avenues of emotional healing.</p><p><em>I’m going to be frank with you, Miss Honeysett, </em>the doctor had said, her voice stern, <em>you can’t keep going the way you are. Stress is bad for babies, let alone post-traumatic stress.</em></p><p>Elliot had fervently nodded her head and explained that yes, she understood, and yes, she would make sure to find a place to relax and destress. And that was how she ended up here the first few times, and now standing in a stall, bringing a brush slowly over the shiny gold coat of a palomino that stood by idly while she fumbled herself through the motions. She had spent a lot of time around horses before, back when she was a kid—back when her grandfather still had his own little mini stable. After he’d died, the horses had of course been sold, even though Elliot had begged her mother to let her keep just <em>one</em> of them.</p><p>“They’re racehorses, Elliot, not show ponies,” her mother had snipped, all those years ago. “What are you going to do with a racehorse?”</p><p><em>Run, </em>she’d thought then. <em>Run and run and run, as far as he’ll take me, and we’ll camp out under the stars and then we’ll run some more until no one can find me ever again.</em></p><p>That had been a dream, of course. Now she only had her two legs to carry her wherever she wanted to go, and they had served her pretty well.</p><p>“Been around horses before?” someone asked lightly from the stall door. “Before the last couple of times you’ve been here, I mean.”</p><p>Elliot’s gaze flickered, snapped out of her thoughts—out of that girl she had been so many years ago—and landed on the same young woman that had gone through all of her paperwork and given her the run-down. Her name was...Sarah? No, it was something else. Something with an S. She was pretty; dark honey-blonde hair swept up into a ponytail, her face pretty enough to be <em>woman</em> and round enough to make that woman look <em>angelic</em>.</p><p>“A long time ago,” Elliot admitted sheepishly, her fingers braided into the palomino’s mane as she worked the kinks out of it. “When I was little.”</p><p>“Ah,” the woman said, smiling. “It’s sort of like riding a bicycle. How come you aren’t riding?”</p><p>“My doctor said not to.” She paused, because that sounded suspicious, and then said, “And anyway, I’d be making a fool out of myself.”</p><p>“Everyone makes a fool out of themselves the first time around, even after a long time. But of course, we want you safe,” the blonde replied somberly, but a smile still ticked the corners of her mouth. When she shifted, Elliot could see that her name tag said <em>Sylvia W. </em>“Hey, you’re Honeysett’s kid, aren’t you?”</p><p>Ellliot stifled a groan. She had made it through precisely two interactions without someone bringing up her mother in the entire time that she’d been back in Weyfield, and she had been hoping to make this a third. Glancing over at Sylvia’s curious expression, Elliot managed out as politely as she could, “Yes, that’s me.”</p><p>“Your mama called,” Sylvia explained amusedly. “Wanted to make sure you got here without problems.”</p><p><em>I’m twenty-six. </em>“Ugh.”</p><p>“It’s cute, but she’s...” Sylvia’s gaze flickered while she tried to come up with a word. And then: “Strong.”</p><p>A quick, sharp laugh billowed out of her, unexpected, because the idea of someone calling her mother <em>strong</em> was absurd—not because she <em>wasn’t, </em>but because so many other words came to mind before the word ‘strong’ did. Elliot stifled the second laugh that tried to bubble up out of her, and Sylvia grinned.</p><p>“Take it that’s not the first impression people get of your mama?”</p><p>“No, Sylvia, it certainly is not.”</p><p>“Via is fine,” the blonde corrected, not unkindly. After a second, of quiet introspection, she continued, “If you ever wanna get out of your house, my brother and I go to that bar in town—you know, the uh.... Wild Rose? They do trivia night every Thursday. Winner gets fifty bucks.”</p><p>“Wow,” Elliot said without thinking, “a <em>whole fifty dollars? </em>To split between the three of us, huh?”</p><p>Via flashed a grin. “I knew you had a sense of humor.”</p><p>The words caught something funny in her chest, hooking into her all of a sudden. Reminding her that once, she had been funny—once, she’d had friends. Once, she’d had this kind of rapport with—</p><p><em>Shut the fuck up, </em>she thought to herself, viciously, <em>if you wallow every time you think about that fuckface you’re never going to get anywhere.</em></p><p>“So?” Via prompted. “What do you think? Want to be our third?”</p><p>“I’m—that’s really nice of you,” Elliot managed out. “I think this week I’ll have to pass. If you think my mama’s <em>strong</em> over the phone, just imagine her in person and five drinks in.”</p><p>The blonde grimaced. “Fair enough. But, invite’s always extended, alright?”</p><p>“Thanks, Sy—Via.” Elliot corrected herself, earning a quick, playful wink from Sylvia before she disappeared down the hall to resume her duties. She finished brushing the old brute; on occasion he’d twist his head back to bump the dark velvet of his nose against her side, reminding her that he was there and appreciated her.</p><p>She finished up the last of the brushing and then dumped her things in the bucket before she carried it out. The last few times she had been here had passed in much the same way—and now that she thought about it, hadn’t Via offered the trivia night thing to her before? Or was she just imagining things?</p><p>“Need sleep,” she murmured to no one in particular, depositing her bucket and brushing her hands against her jeans before sliding her coat on. When she had signed herself out on the sheet and stepped out into the late afternoon, the sun had already gone down; it left the world terribly blue, the sky blue and the snow blue-tinted, like someone had slapped a dim neon light over the sun.</p><p>Elliot puffed a hot breath of air out, fishing around for her keys and unlocking the car. As her gaze swept absently over the landscape, she spotted a car parked at a pull-out just up the hill. From where she was, it was hard to see—perhaps nearly impossible—and she wouldn’t have noticed if—</p><p>If she wasn’t so concerned about seeing a face that was too familiar. Burke, even, would be an unwelcome addition to her life in Weyfield. She tried to stuff down her paranoia; someone was surely just parked while they were sending a text, or making a phone call, or...</p><p><em>Or, they’re watching you, </em>something inside of her said. She ducked into the driver’s side of the car, cranking the heater, but no amount of hot air washed the voice away. <em>Maybe they’re watching you and waiting to arrest you. Or, maybe it’s—</em></p><p>But it couldn’t be. Because the Seeds were in Federal custody, and that meant they weren’t her problem anymore.</p><p>Elliot pulled out of the yard, and then carefully onto the highway, checking her mirror every now and then as she drove the short distance home. Just to be sure. Just to be safe. Someone else pulled out of the stable yard, behind her, and then cresting over the hill came a car that <em>might</em> have been the same one that was parked, and maybe wasn’t, because she hadn’t been able to see the make and model, but if it was, then she would have to make some extra turns on her way home, and...</p><p>“No,” she said, firmly. “It’s no one. It’s nothing. Just traffic. Other people live here too, you idiot.”</p><p>The remainder of the drive was spent forcing herself to keep her eyes on the road and only checking her mirrors when polite driving protocol called for it. After all of that fussing she’d done, she was the only one pulling down the road to her house, and even when she waited in the driveway for a few minutes, nobody followed. No headlights. No strange, dark cars. No monsters to haunt the corners of her vision.</p><p>“You’re late,” her mother called from the kitchen when she stepped inside, shaking the snow out of her hair and shrugging out of her coat.</p><p>“Traffic,” Elliot lied without thinking. God, had she always been such a wretched liar? Surely not, right? “Smells good, mama.”</p><p>“I should hope so. I slaved over it.”</p><p>Elliotshot her mother a dry look, taking a bowl out of the cupboard and beginning to scoop the stew Scarlet had made into it. Boomer waited patiently in the doorway of the kitchen—no dogs allowed rule vehemently obeyed—and when Elliot picked two pieces of bread out of the basket on the counter, still warm, her mother said, “How were the horses?”</p><p>She paused in the doorway. The stairs to the second floor, and the subsequent peace and quiet, were just there. “Good,” she replied after a moment, inching toward the doorway. “Polite. I—made a friend.”</p><p>Scarlet looked up from the book she’d been reading, eyes narrowing. “A horse friend?”</p><p>“No, a—a person!”</p><p>“Mm.” Scarlet looked back at her book. “Just be careful who you associate with, Elli, you never know who has a reputation here.”</p><p>“But <em>you</em> do.” Elliot’s foot hit the first bottom stair. “I’m relying on you to watch my back. Thank you for dinner.”</p><p>Before her mother could ask her where she thought she was going—“Taking <em>food</em> up to your room, Elliot? What are you, nine?”—she had fled up them, Boomer trailing after her until she had the bedroom door safely closed and locked with a breath of relief sweeping out of her. Every interaction was like that; wondering if she was going to make a misstep, drag herself into an argument that she didn’t want to have and which she would only be able to escape if she acquiesced and admitted that her mother was right.</p><p>Splitting one of the pieces of bread in half, she tossed it to Boomer and kicked her shoes off. He chomped happily, tail brushing against the floor. Elliot ate her dinner with the dim, low volume of the TV playing in the background, until half of her soup was gone and she had curled up under the blankets. It wasn’t until the Heeler burrowed into the blankets next to her, pressed against her side, that she finally felt the dredges of exhaustion begin to pull at her.</p><p>The sleeping pills her mother had given to her sat on her bedside table, still untouched. <em>I don’t need them, </em>she thought, shutting the tv off and the lights with it. <em>I don’t need them to sleep.</em></p><p>
  <em>I’m just fine.</em>
</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Night fell heavy, quiet and cold. By the time the late hours had passed and early morning was beginning to roll around—the kind of early where the world still slept—Elliot found herself standing in the hallway.</p><p>She blinked tiredly. She was still in her jeans; she’d neglected to change. Her hands were on the banister, and below her the living room stretched, long and only dimly lit, effused by the glow of the night lights peppered throughout the house. How did she get here? Had she slept walk? What had woken her?</p><p>Slowly, and then all at once, the sound of static drifting from the cracked door of her bedroom registered in her brain. The television was on; that must have been what had woken her. Elliot stood for a minute longer, trying to collect herself, trying to see if she was still dreaming, and then pushed the door to her bedroom open.</p><p>Boomer was snoozing quietly on the bed still. The telvision’s channel flickered static once, twice, and when Elliot reached for the remote, the static flipped again and the screen went black.</p><p>Not powered-off black. Just—a black screen, still backlit, empty.</p><p>White text blinked onto the screen.</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS?</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>Elliot felt her stomach flip. The text blinked out, and then blinked back on, and then stayed. Her heart thudded aggressively against her rib cage, demanding—<em>out out out, </em>it said, desperate for a reprieve from this sudden chill spilling down her spine. She reached blindly, no longer sure where the remote was, when the text blinked again.</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS?</strong>
  </em>
</p><p><em>No, </em>she thought furiously, even though she knew it wasn’t true and that it didn’t matter. Whatever kind of strange late-night programming this was—and that’s what it <em>had to be</em>—wasn’t going to give her a response and certainly wasn’t waiting for one. She would just need to—</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS?</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>Elliot’s fingers gripped the remote and she pressed her finger feverishly, missing the power button once, twice, and then a third time before she finally hit it and the television clicked off. Her hands were shaking; her whole <em>body </em>was shaking, and she quickly crawled back under the covers until Boomer was whuffling, tired and inquisitive, against her face. Her fingers knotted in his fur and she closed her eyes tight.</p><p>Even when they were closed, she saw the words, burned behind her eyelids. The inner strength to stay like that only lasted for another few minutes before she grabbed the bottle of sleeping pills and took one, swallowing it down dry and then dropping the container back on to her nightstand.</p><p>She would sleep. She would sleep, and forget about the strange commercial, and she would get her fucking life together.</p><p>In the morning. After sleep.</p><p><em>No strange dreams, </em>she thought, <em>not for me.</em></p><p>Not anymore.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><i>Ingenting under solen är beständigt</i> - nothing beneath the sun is lasting (I found this on a website for Swedish proverbs--I don't speak Swedish, so if this isn't accurate, I'm sorry! This is about the extent of the Swedish you will see in this fic).</p><p>The flowers falling out of John's mouth in his dream are a reference to a particular scene in Ancient Names, but also reference the imagery of hanahaki disease, a fictional disease that occurs when someone is suffering from unrequited love; the petals they cough up are a symbol of their love.</p><p>If anyone spots the easter egg, I'll give you a cookie!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. omen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Elliot makes some friends!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi friends! Things are still pretty quiet for now, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless; I'm starting to get more and more excited about where this fic is going to go as I flesh out more details, and all of your feedback has been just incredibly wonderful and such a delight. I'm so happy to have met so many incredible people just in this fandom. ♡</p><p>Extra special thank you to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestTortoise/pseuds/TheTiniestTortoise">TheTiniestTortoise</a> for lending me her eyeballs and fixing up all of my frantically-typed spelling errors!! </p><p>I would have more thoughts, but I feel like it's just going to be me waxing poetic at how much I appreciate y'all. Thank you again!</p><p>No warnings for this chapter, not really; language, of course, and there are a few moments where Elliot has some troubling behavior and loses time. So, you know. Nothing new.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was nearly three A.M., and there was nothing that John Seed wanted more than to sleep.</p><p>Though his eyes recognized the time on the car’s radio, and it made him think, <em>ah, yes, it’s time for me to go to sleep now, it’s way too late, </em>his brain was wide awake. The thought passed in and out just like that, just like nothing, reminding him that for perhaps the third or fourth night in a row—who was keeping track, now—John had been following Elliot’s fucked up sleep schedule to try and make sure he had every detail nailed down before he tried reaching out.</p><p>John pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, careful not to hit the horn button as he did so. A low headache had been brewing behind his eyes since trailing Elliot from the barn and back to her mother’s house. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions and say that it had been easy to track her movements and figure out that she was doing exactly what he thought she would be—<em>laying low</em>—but, well, he did like to think that he knew her quite well by now, in more ways than one. Sure, there was some ambiguity about her intentions as of late, but that didn’t change what he knew Elliot to be down at her core:</p><p>Someone who had every intention of staying alive. By any means necessary.</p><p>The burner phone in the passenger seat vibrated, rattling and sliding down along the hardback cover of one of the books he’d been trying to fill his unoccupied time with. He reached over without lifting his head and felt blindly for it; once he’d grabbed it, he turned his face just enough to recognize the number as one of Jacob’s and hit the green <em>accept</em> button.</p><p>“Here.”</p><p>
  <em>“Hey, little brother. How’s it going for the devil who went down to Georgia?”</em>
</p><p>“Ha-ha.” John’s felt his nose scrunch, the corners of his mouth pulling down. “It’s going. Fucking cold as shit.”</p><p><em>“Mm. Here, too.” </em>Jacob paused, as though he wanted to say something, and then said, <em>“What’s the latest?”</em></p><p>Straightening up and settling back against his seat, he closed his eyes. “Not getting any fucking sleep is the latest. I guess I should lead with I found her—”</p><p>
  <em>“That is important.”</em>
</p><p>“—she’s not smoking, so she must have meant what she said, or she’d be taking it pack by pack right now,” he continued lightly. “With her mom. Listens to an amount of Metallica that might, I think, actually be concerning—”</p><p>
  <em>“Johnny.”</em>
</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p><em>“When are you coming home?”</em> And then: <em>“All three of you.”</em></p><p>John paused. He didn’t want to say, ‘I don’t know,’ because that wasn’t a suitable answer. He didn’t want to say a real date, because he <em>didn’t know. </em>There were too many variables that he couldn’t account for; her mother, for one. The baby. She’d need to be seeing doctors here soon, pretty regularly, and she was going out to the barn but she wasn’t <em>riding, </em>not anywhere he could see, which meant she was probably just standing around petting them, which <em>either meant</em> she was seeing a therapist or her doctor had insisted she do something and—</p><p>There were too many things to think about. Too many loose threads, too many open-ended questions and tangents that his brain wanted to run down. He couldn’t pin exactly where it was he wanted to stop and say, <em>this is where I go and get her.</em></p><p>So he said, “What does Joseph think?”</p><p>
  <em>“Two weeks maximum.”</em>
</p><p>“Then I’ll be back before then.”</p><p><em>“You don’t have a fuckin’ plan, do you?” </em>Jacob’s voice was tart, now, pressing. Ever since he’d seen Elliot that night in the forest, standing over Kian’s corpse, he’d been different about her—less critical, even when he should have been, even when he should have felt absolutely furious that she’d turned them in. But Jacob had always been an actions over words man, and John supposed some of Elliot’s actions screamed volumes louder than the things she’d said back at the ranch that day she’d turned them in. Actions that Jacob liked the message of, anyway.</p><p>John exhaled through his nose, glancing at the dark windows of the Honeysett-Graves house. They glimmered, glassy eyes into a world he was so unfamiliar with that it made his teeth grind.</p><p>“I have a plan,” he replied. “I <em>am</em> going to Atlanta.”</p><p>
  <em>“I told you—”</em>
</p><p>“I know what you said, Jake,” John interjected tartly, “but I want this done with as little carnage as possible. This is my—”</p><p>
  <em>Wife and son, wife and son, my wife and my son, that’s my baby in there.</em>
</p><p>“I’m not having a repeat,” he finished at last. “No loose ends. No variables I’m not aware of. Especially since I’m <em>guessing</em> she’s not here under Federal protection, which means they’re either completely incompetent idiots—”</p><p>
  <em>“Possible.”</em>
</p><p>“—or she’s somewhere she’s not supposed to be. So.” His eyes flickered over the front of the house. “As little fuss as possible.”</p><p>Something in the dark house moved; it was hard to see, and he’d hardly been paying attention, but when he squinted a little and tried to focus he saw it—it looked like light, slipping through a door that was opening. The big French windows on the second floor of the house had a straight look into the upstairs hallway and the door that was, presumably, Elliot’s room; now, watching, he could see her standing in the doorway to the room for a minute.</p><p>
  <em>“...back as soon as possible. John?”</em>
</p><p>“Yeah,” John said, but he wasn’t listening and didn’t know what it was he had just agreed to. What was she doing? He’d seen her get up around this time and go for a walk, or pace around the living room, Boomer right on her heels. But she was just...standing?</p><p>
  <em>“Joseph wants you back as soon as possible.”</em>
</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Through the window, he saw Elliot come out to where her hands could rest on the banister edging the upper hallway. And then she remained standing. She just—<em>stood.</em></p><p>And stood.</p><p>
  <em>And stood.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“John—”</em>
</p><p>“Hold on,” John said, turning the car on and inching forward a little with the lights off. “Something weird is...”</p><p>
  <em>“Someone set Fall’s End on fire.”</em>
</p><p>“Wh—” He blinked rapidly, trying to process the words at the same time as he was figuring out what the fuck it was Elliot was looking at. <em>Was</em> she looking at something? John let the car creep forward, clearing his throat. “Fall’s End what now?”</p><p>
  <em>“Someone lit the town on fire.”</em>
</p><p>“The Family?”</p><p><em>“I think so. We didn’t get a full head-count of them when they were all alive, and it’s impossible to know that they’re all dead for sure. But burn marks have been showing up all over the place, and I think someone is cleaning up loose ends.”</em> Jacob paused. <em>“We got the fire out, eventually. Burned down half the town, though.”</em></p><p>“Jesus Christ.”</p><p>
  <em>“Nothing so holy, I’m afraid.”</em>
</p><p>“I’ve gotta go,” John said, shutting the car off. “Something weird’s going on. I’m gonna start heading to Atlanta in a few hours, probably—track down an old friend and cash in on a favor she owes me.”</p><p>
  <em>“Khan?”</em>
</p><p>John sighed. “Yes.”</p><p>
  <em>“You sure you wanna? I know you worked together, but—well, after the whole Joseph—”</em>
</p><p>“I’m sure.”</p><p>
  <em>“Well, good luck. And keep your fuckin’ head down. I’ll do you the favor and not mention your little excursion to Joseph.”</em>
</p><p>“Thanks.” John felt a tired smile pull at the edges of his mouth. “I will.”</p><p>A short, quick <em>goodbye</em> exchange left John in silence again with only the stifling snowfall and the vision of Elliot standing, staring out the window. From here, John could only see larger details of her face; but she didn’t seem to be under distress. As far as he could see, her expression was relaxed, maybe even slack.</p><p>The minutes ticked by. After about an hour, a strange flicker of light came from her otherwise dark bedroom behind her, and as though snapping awake from a dream, Elliot jolted—glanced around, made her way back into the bedroom, and closed the door behind her.</p><p><em>What the fuck, </em>he thought, turning the key in the ignition. <em>What was she doing? Sleepwalking?</em></p><p>He didn’t have time to think about this, not right now anyway. The sooner he got to Atlanta, the sooner he’d come back, and the sooner he could get Elliot out of this place and back to safety.</p><p>John exhaled sharply through his nose, turning the car back on and slowly pulling down the lane. No headlights, again. The evening felt bright from the moonlight and the snow, brighter than it normally would have, and as the car rolled down to the stop sign he did a quick cursory glance; everything was quiet, no strange cars lingering between houses, nothing to make him think that what Elliot had been doing was anything more than just a poor bout of sleepwalking.</p><p>Even though she had never slept walked <em>before, </em>even under the stressful circumstances they’d had to deal with. Even though John didn’t think he’d been paying enough attention to the neighborhood to decide whether or not he’d made a fair judgment on if anything looked suspicious. Oh, well—with the Family almost sufficiently tied up save the stragglers left back in Hope County, the only thing he really had to worry about was the law, and he was fairly certain they would have been coming in guns blazing if they thought that they could snag Elliot.</p><p>He’d find a place to park, get some sleep, and then make the four hour drive to Atlanta. Hopefully, his business partner had become more mellow over the last year or so; he remembered they hadn’t left on the greatest of terms, considering he’d basically left her high and dry without any notice.</p><p>She didn’t even need to have gotten nicer. Just less immune to his charms, really; though as John turned onto the highway to find a quiet place to park for a while, he couldn’t shake the feeling that returning to Atlanta would be nothing short of out of the frying pan and into the fire.</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>When Elliot awoke the next morning, she thought for sure that the strange images filtering through her mind could only have been a dream.</p><p>Certainly, the world around her seemed to have taken no notice of any strange, haunting occurrences; when her eyes opened, heavy with fatigue and desperate to close again, it felt as though the entire night had passed undisturbed. Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains draped across her window, the cold light of a winter morning still feeling warm when it cut across her quilted comforter.</p><p>Boomer snuffed against her pillow before lifting his head. He whined low in his throat, ears flattening back against his head as he watched her with warm, dark eyes.</p><p>“What is it, buddy?” Elliot murmured tiredly. She reached up, rubbing one of his ears with her fingers. “You didn’t sleep well either, huh?”</p><p>The heeler nosed her hand anxiously. It only lasted for a moment before he had lurched out from under the covers, darting off of the bed and towards the door just as it swung open to reveal her mother waiting expectantly on the other side. Elliot watched Boomer duck between Scarlet’s legs and dart down the stairs, apparently having decided that he had spent enough time in bed that morning.</p><p>Stifling what Elliot was sure to be the world’s most offended sound, her mother said, “You’ve slept in quite a bit this morning, bunny.”</p><p>Elliot blinked tiredly, sitting up and glancing at her alarm clock. it blinked <em>10:37 A.M. </em>at her in neon green, reminding her that she had not slept in so late in quite some time—she actually couldn’t remember when the last time <em>was</em> that she’d been able to sleep in. Once, a long time ago, she had been the girl who loved sleep. Maybe she was still that girl, and sleep just didn’t love her?</p><p>Her head still felt foggy, like it had been filled with cotton; and still, somewhere in the back of her mind, the stark white words still flickered, desperate for her attention.</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS?</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS?</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>H A V E Y O U B E E N H A V I N G —</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>“Elliot,” her mother said, abruptly breaking through the funny static still permeating her brain. Her eyes had been fixed on the black television screen on her nightstand.</p><p>“Yes,” Elliot replied without thinking. “Sorry, I’m just—a little groggy, still.” This had been happening more and more lately—these moments where she felt like she had been returning from somewhere very far away from herself, like she had been <em>somewhere else.</em> A part of her recognized the feeling the same way as when it felt like something had pulled her out of her own skin to make her watch herself, but it wasn’t quite the same. Not all the way.</p><p>“Did you take one of those pills?”</p><p>She nodded. Her mother regarded her curiously, and she elaborated, “Pretty late, though. I think I’m gonna get ready to head to the barn—thanks for waking me up.”</p><p>“Run that beast of yours first,” Scarlet told her, turning with a gentle sweep of her silk robe against the carpeted floor. “I don’t want him wild while you’re away.”</p><p>Elliot only barely managed to stifle her sigh. “Okay, mama,” she murmured, and then before she could stop herself: “Did I ever sleepwalk before?”</p><p>Scarlet paused, halfway into the hallway by the time the question came out, and turned to look at Elliot with her eyebrows furrowed. “Sleepwalk?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she replied. “Like—when I was little, or something.”</p><p>“No,” Scarlet replied. “You just didn’t sleep very much. But we never had a problem with you sleepwalking.” Her mother lingered for a moment; it was like she was waiting for Elliot to elaborate on the question, though the implications laid there between them already just by her asking. That she had slept walk, or something gave her a reason to be concerned about it.</p><p>When Elliot didn’t further her comment, Scarlet said, “Perhaps you should only take half a pill.”</p><p>A tiny, creeping sense of dread crawled up her spine. <em>Don’t look at me like that, </em>something small and terrified inside of her said, <em>please stop looking at me like that, I’m not a fucking psycho, I’m not an animal, please don’t—</em></p><p>Downstairs, Boomer barked, excited and impatient—reminding her that he needed to go outside, that <em>he</em> had slept in late too and he’d be buzzing with energy if she didn’t let him sprint it out in the snow. Elliot exhaled through her mouth and watched her mother turn away again, drifting out of sight of the doorway and down the stairs as she called to Boomer to calm down.</p><p>Elliot only lingered in bed for a few minutes more; that’s all she could really afford before she thought Scarlet might come unglued with Boomer’s excited tapping. She slid out from under the blankets, still in her jeans from the previous night, and pulled a sweatshirt on over her head before stuffing her feet into some boots and heading downstairs.</p><p>The majority of the next hour was spent watching the Heeler dive into snow drifts, darting out into the empty driveway leading away from the house and shaking the puffs of white powder from his coat. More snow had fallen in the night, which left plenty of fresh stuff to be rooted around in; by the time Elliot made it down to the end of the driveway and back to the house, she was nearly ready to crawl back into bed and go to sleep.</p><p>Well, she was always ready for sleep. It just seemed sleep was never ready for <em>her.</em></p><p><em>You can’t keep going the way you are, </em>the doctor had said, like it was possible to turn her brain off, to rewire after so many years of being this way. Like she could just <em>stop being this way. </em>Wasn’t that contradictory, anyway? ‘Stop being the way that you are, inherently, deep in the marrow of your bones’?</p><p>Autopilot kicked on. She ate a piece of toast, fending off the urge to lean over and puke, before climbing into the car and driving herself out to the barn. She thought, <em>I should get a job, </em>and she thought, <em>I should get a place of my own, </em>and all of those things felt very far away and very distant, and like they would never be within reach.</p><p>
  <em>You think you’re gonna move on and meet some nice little country boy who’s gonna love you even with all that fucking red in your ledger?</em>
</p><p>She just wanted to feel normal. She just wanted to feel like <em>herself, </em>and the scary thing was maybe this was who she was now—this. This girl. This woman. This <em>devil, </em>just like he’d said.</p><p>
  <em>Do you think they’ll understand, when they read the reports of what you did to that man? Of the trail of bodies you’ve left behind yourself?</em>
</p><p>Elliot thought about that car she’d seen yesterday, parked at the top of the hill overlooking the stable. She thought about the dark car parked there, for who knows how long—and maybe they <em>had</em> been waiting for her. Burke would surely be looking out for her, trying to figure out where it was she came from, because Weyfield wouldn’t have been listed on her file if she was born in Hope County. He’d be looking, and she’d have to be more careful. Maybe do something to disguise herself? If she was going to be on the run, then—</p><p>Someone knocked on her window. It jolted her out of her thoughts, yanked her from somewhere deep and dark inside of herself she had gone. When she looked, it was Sylvia standing there—she was at the barn. She had driven herself to the barn, and parked, and had been sitting here for...how long?</p><p>“Hey, Honeysett,” Via greeted her when she rolled the window down. “You ever comin’ in?”</p><p>A long time, then. A long time, and she didn’t remember anything between getting into her car and parking.</p><p>“Yeah,” Elliot said, pushing a little smile onto her face. “I was just—thinking.”</p><p>“Think inside, where it’s warm,” the blonde suggested, and Elliot nodded sheepishly before climbing out of the Jeep.</p><p>As the two made their way up to the barn, Elliot tried to search her brain for the memories—for the span of time she’d lost between the house and here, but she came up empty-handed time and time again. She went to open the door into the main office, but Sylvia stopped her, hand on her arm.</p><p>“Hey, Elliot...” Via’s voice trailed off, like she was trying to find the right thing to say or the best way to say what it was that was on her mind; Ell felt her body brace, stiffening for the onslaught of the inevitable wave—<em>are you okay? Are you doing alright? Do you want to talk about it? Do you want someone to talk to?</em></p><p>But all she said, after a moment, was, “Have you thought any more about trivia night?”</p><p>Elliot blinked. “Huh?”</p><p>“You know, at the Wild Rose,” Sylvia clarified, a little smile tugging at her lips. “Have you thought any more about coming out to trivia night? Bet your mama wouldn’t mind gettin’ you out of her hair for a while.”</p><p>The question caught her so off guard—she had been so prepared for the hefty weight of questions that were <em>more</em>—that she felt a laugh escape her almost immediately upon processing the blonde’s words. It was something almost like <em>relief, </em>sheer and vibrant and rupturing straight through her spine and into her brain, firing off neural synapses that reminded her what it was like to feel happy.</p><p>“Well,” Via said, her smile widening at the abrupt laughter coming out of Elliot, “if you don’t want to, you only have to <em>say.”</em></p><p>“No, no, I’m—I’m sorry,” Elliot said quickly, trying to quell the laughter at the absurdity of the question in lieu of recent events. “It’s just—you just caught me zoning out in my car like a fucking nutjob, so the last thing I was expecting was for you to try and get me to come out with you.”</p><p>Sylvia barely knew her. She didn’t know about the baby, or the scar on her chest, or the place she had come from or the bodies she’d left behind—she only liked and knew the parts of Elliot that she was careful to show in the passing conversations they’d shared at the barn, which were almost nonexistent in comparison to what it was she <em>actually</em> carried with her, and that made it all the more bittersweet to have her persist in trying to be friendly.</p><p>In trying to be her <em>friend.</em></p><p>“Look!” Sylvia exclaimed, and now <em>she</em> was laughing, too. “My brother is the <em>worst</em> at trivia night, okay? He’s got about three braincells, and they’re almost always concerned with what pretty girl he’s going to be flirtin’ with or the food he’s gonna be eatin’. I’m just asking for a little <em>back-up</em>, is all.”</p><p>Elliot took in a little breath. She wanted to say no, again. It was safer—to go home, curl up in bed, try to sleep. Snuggle her dog and pretend like the rest of the world didn’t exist. She wanted to say no, but there was also a tiny, spiteful part of her that kept hearing Joseph’s voice, and John’s voice, and <em>Burke’s</em> voice when he heard, presumably, about the autopsy—a part of her that wanted to prove them wrong.</p><p>
  <em>I can be normal. I can have friends. I can be loved.</em>
</p><p>“I—okay,” she managed out after a moment. Sylvia’s brow arched upward.</p><p>“You wanna try that again, and maybe this time you can try not to sound like you wanna puke?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, it’s just been hard moving here,” Elliot feigned quickly, blushing. “I do. Want to, I mean. Go to trivia night.”</p><p>“Great!” Via enthused, motioning for Elliot to go inside. “I’m here a couple of hours after you, so how about I come pick you up?”</p><p>“Okay,” Ell murmured, nodding. Her heart fluttered uncomfortably in her chest. “Yeah, I live—um, do you want to write down my address, or—”</p><p>“Honey—” Via pressed her hands onto Elliot’s shoulders, looking her square in the eyes. The gesture served a greater purpose than maybe Sylvia thought it did—it immediately quelled the nervous flickering of her heart in her chest, but induced a more somber, aching note ringing there, just in the hollow. The movement was too reminiscent of Joey for her to ignore it.</p><p>“Ain’t nobody in this town havin’ trouble finding <em>your</em> house.”</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>The rest of the afternoon passed in something close to a blur. But it always felt like that when she was around the horses—the work of mucking out stalls and grooming the beasts was both mindless <em>and</em> cathartic, requiring very little of her brain power to complete each task while finding that each time she completed one, she felt better. <em>Accomplished.</em></p><p>Good, steady, salt-of-the-earth work that she could close down most of her faculties for.</p><p>She managed to drive home without losing time, and she’d spent about thirty minutes in her bathroom staring helplessly at herself in the mirror when she heard her mother call from the hallway, “Elli, what are you doing in there?”</p><p><em>I don’t know, </em>Elliot thought, with only the small collection of makeup her mother had dropped off the first night she’d come back home. ‘For you,’ she’d said, and what meant was, <em>don’t embarrass me, </em>but they’d come to a mutual understanding about that.</p><p>“Getting ready,” she called back, instead of what it was she wanted to say. “I’m going out with—” She paused. “With my friends. Tonight.”</p><p>There was a long moment of silence before Scarlet said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”</p><p>The question sparked something angry and irrational inside of Elliot. The words raced down her spine, fizzing and popping, and it felt good—it felt <em>nice, </em>to be angry about something, to be annoyed, to feel anything that wasn’t wallowing apathy or pure, unadulterated dread.</p><p>“Well, mama, do you want me to get back to normal or <em>what?”</em> she demanded, coming out of the bathroom to find her mother standing in the doorway. “Sometimes I think I can’t tell whether you want me functioning or crippled.”</p><p>“You’re not stupid, Elliot,” her mother snapped, “so don’t say stupid things. You’re my daughter. Of course I want you healthy.”</p><p>“I guess it’s just hard to tell, given that you don’t like when I do the things the doctor suggests and you try to discourage me from going out with my friends.”</p><p>“I <em>want,” </em>Scarlet reiterated, “you to be <em>safe.”</em></p><p>“I <em>am,”</em> Elliot replied sharply.</p><p>“Oh? Well, bless your heart, here I was worried that the girl who’s found herself with <em>child</em> and the father nowhere in sight might have questionable judgment!”</p><p>Her mother’s feigned relief was enough to make her teeth ache—sugary sweet and all-together too cloying for her to feel ready to stomach. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway, the tone of voice that she decided to deliver her emotional blow in; it hit the same regardless.</p><p>Elliot <em>wanted</em> to cry. She wanted to get angry enough that she could cry, wanted to really feel the hurt stinging and aching deep inside of her the way that it had before. But things just didn’t land quite the same way they had before, emotionally, and so felt her jaw tighten and her molars grind. There was no tell-tale burn behind her eyes.</p><p>It was almost sickening that she found herself thinking of the vicious things she could say back. <em>At least I left my baby daddy, </em>she wanted to say, <em>and not the other way around.</em></p><p>“It’s just for trivia night,” she said finally. “At the Wild Rose. I’m going with my friend from the barn.”</p><p>Scarlet exhaled, once, hard and sharp through her nose before she turned said, “Well, I just hope you know what you’re doing.”</p><p>“It’s <em>trivia night.”</em></p><p>“I heard you the first time, Elliot Savannah.”</p><p>She couldn’t resist the urge to roll her eyes, but thankfully her mother had already departed from the room—left her back to her own devices. More determined than ever, Elliot diligently put herself through the motions of what it was like to have something to “get ready” for; hair brushed (curled, even?), mascara and lip gloss carefully applied. It had been so long since she’d made herself up for anything, or anyone, that the person she saw in the mirror was a stranger. More so than usual.</p><p>The time between finishing what she thought was about the extent of her willingness to get ready and waiting for Sylvia to show up was spent wondering if she had made a mistake saying yes. What if she regretted it? What if Sylvia wasn’t as nice as she seemed at the barn? What if—</p><p>But that was the exact problem, of course—those nasty little <em>what ifs</em> swimming around in her head, seeding doubt left and right. It didn’t get any better when she heard the honk outside, nor when she pulled her jacket on and darted out the front door, and <em>certainly </em>not when she pulled herself into the driver’s side of Sylvia’s truck to see the dark blonde grinning at her.</p><p>“Howdy, princess!” Via greeted her warmly. “You’ve got your trivia brain turned on, I presume?”</p><p>“Well, you never asked if I was <em>good</em> at trivia,” Elliot warned, the nervous flutterings she recognized as <em>happiness</em> sitting in the pit of her stomach.</p><p>“Oh, well I suppose I’ve just been runnin’ all over hell’s half-acre to come and get you for you to not have any trivia knowledge, huh?”</p><p>Elliot grinned. The gesture felt strange and foreign on her face, but good, too; working muscles that she hadn’t used in a while, not to this extent. She vowed soberly, “I’ll do my best, captain.”</p><p>Via eyed her amusedly. “You’d better.”</p><p>They arrived at the Wild Rose shortly. Like Hope County, driving five minutes in just about any direction would get you to the edge of town, which made it easy to keep track of things. The bar itself was the kind that was to be expected of a small town with a lot of old money; almost a speak-easy style, the inside drenched in deep amber lights and thick, heavy curtains giving it a smokey ambiance. When Elliot and Via stepped inside, they were immediately waved down by a handsome blonde in the corner table.</p><p>“My brother Wyatt,” Via explained, having leaned back a little to speak to her. “He’s a funny sort, but don’t let him fool you. Humor’s <em>all</em> he’s got goin’ for him.”</p><p>Closer, Elliot could immediately see the resemblance. They had the same nose, and the same smiling eyes—the kind that made you feel like he was smiling at you even if his mouth wasn’t making the gesture. A neatly trimmed beard and a warm grin completed the entire ensemble that said, <em>Yes, I am related to that incredibly nice woman you’re here with, thanks for asking.</em></p><p>“Wyatt, this is Elliot,” Via introduced once they had slid into the booth, Elliot perched on the side of Via where she could make a quick escape if she needed to. “She’s the one that’s been helping at the barn, you know?” She looked at Elliot, settling back against the booth. “Wyatt trains the horses.”</p><p>“Horse family, huh?” Elliot asked.</p><p>“Well, it’s funny you say that!” Wyatt began, eliciting an eye roll from Via. “You see, even though I am the younger sibling, I was actually interested in horses <em>first</em>—”</p><p>“I can’t believe you got him started,” Via sighed.</p><p>“—and Via just can’t resist letting me have anything for myself,” her brother continued confidently, “so naturally she had to become the absolute best at it. Yes, I have been working there longer, and yes, Via still somehow managed to become my boss.”</p><p>Elliot flashed a smile. “Older sister syndrome.”</p><p>“Precisely,” Wyatt agreed, pleased. “See, I told you, Via. I’m not the only one.”</p><p>“Quit bein’ ugly and just give me the damn trivia card already.”</p><p>Wyatt said something along the lines of <em>can’t be ugly with this face, sis, </em>but slid her the card obediently, scooching himself out of the far end of the booth. “Vi, you want a beer?”</p><p>“Please,” Via replied, and then looked at Elliot. “Honeysett?”</p><p>“Oh,” Elliot said, forgetting for a moment that they were in a bar and usually, young people went out and drank together. “No, thank you, I’m good.”</p><p>Wyatt shot her the finger-guns before he sauntered over to the bar, eliciting in Sylvia the most <em>suffering</em> noise Elliot thought she had ever heard.</p><p>“Did he just finger-guns you?”</p><p>“Yes,” Elliot replied pleasantly.</p><p><em>“Lord,”</em> Sylvia sighed. “No wonder that boy can’t get himself a date.”</p><p>Wyatt returned shortly with two beers in one hand and ice water in the other, which he promptly set in front of Elliot before passing one of the beers to his sister.</p><p>“So, Elliot,” he began, “how much is Via payin’ you to be her friend?”</p><p>“She’s—I’m not,” Ell said quickly.</p><p>“I <em>told</em> you to quit bein’ ugly.”</p><p>Wyatt ducked a poorly-timed cuff over the head, grinning. “Can’t be ugly with a face like mine, Vi.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Via said when she turned to Elliot. “I should have realized he’d be insufferable. Poor thing doesn’t know how to act around a woman he’s not related to.” She glanced at Wyatt, squinting comedically. “Please refrain from scaring Elliot off any further, you baby man, and focus up for trivia night.”</p><p>The night went on like that for the most part—Via was firmly focused on the trivia game, which they ended up coming in second for, earning them each a voucher for a free drink, and no grand-prize of an entire fifty dollars.</p><p>“I can’t believe we were <em>so close!”</em> Via exclaimed as they walked out of the bar and into the evening outside. It was chilly as the three of them lingered around the doorway. “We’ve never been so close, Wyatt. Not that you did anything different. Still as unhelpful as ever.”</p><p>“Brains,” Wyatt replied, indicating both blondes, “and beauty. C’mon, Vi.”</p><p>As the siblings bickered playfully, Elliot glanced curiously around the square. Pretty twinkling lights had been hung up in preparation for Christmas, now only a week away or so, and it doused the entire place in a lovely yellow-gold light that made everything feel cozier. Couples lingered in the small park area at the center, some on benches and some walking through and admiring the lights; the occasional car slipped past to either head out of town and back to where they’d come from or toward the more residential areas of Weyfield.</p><p>It was one such car, dark and sleek and windows tinted two shades more than normal windows, that caught Elliot’s eye. It shouldn’t have; it was just as unremarkable as every other car passing through, except she thought that <em>maybe</em> it looked like the car she’d seen the other day, parked on the hill. As she kept looking, brows furrowing, she thought she glimpsed dark sleeves, tanned skin, short, dark stubble and gold lettering right there, it was <em>right there</em> if she could just get a better look at it—</p><p><em>I can’t, </em>she thought faintly, <em>I can’t let them find me. I can’t. I won’t go. I won’t fucking go.</em></p><p>“You ever dyed hair before?” Elliot blurted out, her attention having snapped back to Via and Wyatt. The siblings regarded her curiously for a moment.</p><p>“You mean like...for fun?” Via asked.</p><p>“Sure,” Ell replied. “I’ve just been thinking I wanted a change. But I think I’d mess it up.”</p><p>“Well, don’t trust her to do your hair,” Wyatt cautioned, “she cut her own hair in the fourth grade and—well, actually, I bet I have the picture still in my wallet...”</p><p>Via swatted his arm with a hearty <em>thunk</em>. “Do <em>not.”</em> She turned her attention back to Elliot, smiling a little. “I can help. I’ve done box dye plenty of times.”</p><p>Ell nodded, feeling relieved. She’d have to do something they wouldn’t have expected; something like black, or red, or...</p><p>“Can do it as soon as you like,” the blonde offered, breaking her rapidly spiraling train of thought.</p><p>She cleared her throat, hopeful. “Tomorrow?”</p><p>With her arm slung around Wyatt’s neck to pull him down. “Sure, Honeysett, whatever you want.”</p><p>“Can’t wait to see the new ‘do, Miss Honey,” Wyatt told her with a grin, lighting Elliot’s face up with something warm. It was strange—to be given a nickname that didn’t have to do with being the devil, that didn’t have some strange association with a penchant for violence she didn’t want to have.</p><p>Via pinched Wyatt’s cheek. “Quit playin’ and get out of here, boy. I’m taking Elliot home.”</p><p>They eventually went down the street to where Sylvia had parked her truck, Wyatt jogging off in the other direction to wherever it was he had parked. By the time Sylvia had driven back to Elliot’s house, she felt emotionally tapped; wrung out more than she had in quite a long time, but...Pleasantly, too.</p><p>She crawled out of the passenger seat, clearing her throat. “Thanks,” Elliot said, glancing at the blonde sitting in the driver’s seat. “For inviting me out here. Even when—I looked like a psycho in my car today.”</p><p>“You only looked a <em>little</em> psycho, and we all do sometimes anyway,” Via allowed generously, “and it was fun. You’ll come out next week too, right? Now that we’ve reached second place, I’ve gotten a taste for winnin’ and I <em>ain’t</em> gonna lose again.”</p><p>Elliot felt a smile pushing onto her face, in spite of herself. “Sure thing, captain.”</p><p>Via winked. “Night, Honeysett.”</p><p>Making her way up to the front steps, Elliot turned and watched the headlights of her friend’s car pull out and then turn around to make the trip down the winding driveway. When the dark red of the taillights faded out far enough, and the world around her was dark and quiet and hushed the way that it was in winter, she realized for the first time in a long time that she felt <em>lighter.</em></p><p>Lighter, and happier, too.</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Atlanta was just like John remembered it. Bustling, busy, packed with colorful nightlife. Being back in the city made him really <em>miss</em> it, and the life that he had before; he knew, somewhere deep down, that he wasn’t supposed to miss it. That he had been cleansed, and for that he shouldn’t long for a life that had allowed him to use and abuse himself and other people.</p><p>But he did. He did miss it.</p><p>Truer still were those feelings the second he stepped foot into the sleek, glossy building that had once been his base of operations. It was late enough that the night guard was swapping out—which he had planned on—but still early enough that he imagined his old business partner hadn’t gone home, if she was still in this building. God, he fucking hoped he was right.</p><p>The elevator slid to a slow, quiet stop, the humming of its journey cut short by its arrival; a single ding had the doors opening out into the lobby, and he was pleased to see a familiar name on the plaque hanging on the wall. Everything looked almost exactly the same as he’d left it—there were more plants, maybe, though he thought maybe that had been the secretary’s doing and not Isolde’s doing.</p><p>“I’m sorry, but the hours are clearly stated on the director downstairs,” said a familiar voice from down the hall, drawing John’s eyes in that direction. “I’ll have no problem calling security if you think—”</p><p>The source of the voice stopped short. There stood Isolde Khan; once his business partner, long-time college friend, and the only woman who wanted to see him, perhaps, <em>less</em> than his own wife did.</p><p>“Hi, Sol,” he greeted. “<em>Love </em>what you’ve done with the place.”</p><p>“I haven’t done fuck all,” Isolde snapped, narrowing her eyes. She made no move to close any more of the distance between them, but not for anything other than, he thought, what had to be sheer stubbornness.</p><p>“You happy to see me?” John asked lightly.</p><p>“I think if I were a lesser woman I would have stuck my stiletto through your eye socket,” the brunette deadpanned. “You know you left me in a lurch, right? Fucked off to God knows where, for God knows what—”</p><p>“It was for <em>Joseph, </em>and you know that—”</p><p>“—and <em>now,”</em> Isolde bit out, “you’re <em>back.</em>”</p><p>John said plainly, “I can explain.”</p><p>“Great.” She turned on her heel, beckoning once with two fingers for him to follow. “You can make me a fucking drink while you do.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, you can find me on <a href="https://proudspires.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>, crying about characters and posting mediocre edits!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. somnolence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello hello! I really hope y'all like this chapter; after struggling with it for a while, and feeling a bit unwell the past couple of weeks, it definitely feels good to get it done and I'm quite pleased with how it turned out. I wanted to say thank you all for your patience, as I know I can sometimes manically updated and then go silent for a while, but I really appreciate it! My work schedule has been nutso so it's definitely added to the challenge of getting this chapter done.</p><p>As always, a special thank you goes to my beloved Starcrier, who not only is the creator of our gorgeous and benevolent Sylvia but also my proofreader. She put her divine eyeballs on the first 3/4 of this piece to ensure it was coherent, and then I saved the last part as a surprise (so don't be shocked to find spelling errors, lol).</p><p>Warnings for this chapter include: mentions of self-harm, gruesome nightmares and body horror, allusions or references to prenatal depression/disassociating. Special warning for John being left in his own echo chamber of feeling right and thus, getting more and more assured of how Right he is, lol.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Did you miss me?” John asked, propped up against the doorframe that led into Isolde’s office. The brunette scribbled something absently on her notepad. For someone who expected to never see him again, she seemed awfully blasé about the fact that he was standing there, in the flesh. Flesh still attached and not melted off by nuclear waves, anyway.</p><p>Her gaze lifted to her computer screen as she began typing, her fingers moving quick and methodical across the keyboard. “What are you doing here?” she asked, and then gestured with one hand vaguely. “Isn’t the world supposed to be ending, or something?”</p><p>“Not yet,” he replied. He pushed off of the doorframe and walked further in, plopping down in the plush leather-backed seat that sat in front of her desk. “It was overestimated.”</p><p>“Your brother seems to be making a poor habit of that.” Isolde’s gaze finally turned to him, but only when he propped his feet up on the corner of her desk; disgust flickered over her expression. “<em>Overestimating</em> himself.”</p><p>“You should tell him yourself, don’t tell <em>me.”</em> John replied, glossing over the clipped jab that he knew wasn’t meant for him. “I’ve got news.”</p><p>His business partner shoved his feet off of her desk. “So I had gathered by your unexpected and, frankly, annoying reappearance in my office. Tell me, John, is the abandonment of your business partners a systematic one, or do I have <em>Fuck Me Over </em>tattooed on my forehead?”</p><p>“<em>Our</em> office,” John corrected her, even though when he’d left, it had essentially been “goodbye forever”. He eyed her warily; the last thing he needed was Isolde getting herself riled up, so he plunged on, “I got married.”</p><p>Isolde’s dark, manicured brows arched upward, and she looked back at the papers in front of her. “Poor fuck.”</p><p>“And I’m going to be a dad.”</p><p>“Oh, so you’ve <em>doubly</em> inflicted yourself on some poor soul,” she sighed, passing a hand over her face. “I suppose you’re going to explain how this information ties into the troublesome task you are <em>inevitably</em> going to request I complete for you.”</p><p>His mouth twisted a little, halfway to a smile and halfway to a grimace, stuck in the limbo between both emotions. Anything concerning Elliot was bittersweet, to be sure; this, in particular, was no different. John would have liked nothing more than to go screaming-hot into Weyfield, but if there was one thing that he’d learned about their last little adventure, it was that Elliot would be as obtusely uncooperative as possible. That personality would surely become endearing, later, but for now—well, for now, it was just a problem.</p><p>“I drove all the way out here to get her,” John said.</p><p>“Get her?” Isolde prompted.</p><p>“Back.”</p><p>“What the fuck?” The brunette’s eyes narrowed. “What is this, the immaculate conception?”</p><p>“She may or may not have, at some point, perhaps—”</p><p>“She <em>did</em> or she <em>didn’t</em>, John, just fucking spit it out.”</p><p>“We got married, she told me she’s carrying my child,” John explained quickly. “Some things back in Hope County occurred—as <em>expected</em>—and now we’re just collecting ourselves and getting back on track.”</p><p>His fingers tapped against the top of the chair’s arm absently. Isolde’s eyes narrowed further, until they were nothing but dark, gemlike slits, fringed in thick lashes. She was <em>watching</em> him fidget—and that’s what it was, <em>fidgeting,</em> only exacerbated by her viciously unrelenting gaze. He’d watched her bring men to tears on the stand, in front of God, with the same kind of look.</p><p>“John,” Isolde began, “is this girl <em>running</em> from you?”</p><p>“No,” he said primly. “She’s running from...the law.” It felt not <em>so </em>much like a lie, this sentence coming out of his mouth. Because really, Elliot couldn’t be running from him; she thought he was arrested, or dead, or in some strange in-between purgatory, and she was probably happy about that. No, if Elliot wasn’t in the custody of the <em>law</em>, which she clearly wasn’t, she was running from them—of that much, he was certain.</p><p>The woman across from him leaned against the desk, steepling her fingers. She was silent for a long moment; long enough for John to think, <em>maybe I should say something, </em>and then he thought, <em>no, fuck no, that’s exactly what she wants, </em>and he gritted his teeth together.</p><p>Finally, Isolde said, her voice very quiet, “If there’s a detail about this you’re leaving out, I strongly suggest that for the sake of keeping yourself intact, and not thrown out my window, you tell me now.”</p><p>“Funny,” John said dryly, “you’re making me miss her more and more. She used to threaten me like that, you know.”</p><p>“You could use a good ass-kicking.” Isolde sucked her teeth, exasperated. As she pushed her chair back from her desk and came to a stand, John stood too; he watched her sling her coat over her shoulders and pick up her purse, pulling her cell phone out of the black leather bag. “It’s been <em>really</em> refreshing, John—by which, of course, I mean that I could not be less pleased to have you in <em>my </em>office—”</p><p><em>“Our</em> office.”</p><p>“—than if you had hit me with your expensive car and left me for dead. Alas, I think that may have been kinder than you fucking off for the ‘end of the world’.”</p><p>“I’ll remind you,” John snipped out tersely, “that you almost did the same thing.”</p><p>Isolde’s head snapped to him. There were about five seconds for John to exhale out of his nose and open his mouth to explain that what he <em>meant</em> was that <em>surely,</em> Isolde could sympathize with him because she had harbored feelings, once, moons ago, for Joseph—and that she shouldn’t write him off because of it.</p><p>“<em>Almost,”</em> she bit out viciously, and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, “but then I realized that it was <em>fucking nuts, </em>and you did <em>not</em>, you five-foot-nine fucking <em>goblin</em>, so piss the fuck out of my office before I call security to kick you out.”</p><p>“Sol,” John tried again, sweeter this time as he unpeeled her fingers from his shirt, “Sol—Isolde, <em>Miss Khan, </em>you—”</p><p>He faltered. The compliment machine in his brain was coming up short. He had known Isolde for a long time—too long, one might say, for him to be friends with a woman that had bullied him into being a better person, ran a business with him, fucked his brother, <em>dumped his brother, </em>and now was likely considering the logistics of murdering him with her own two hands—and so there was nothing he could say.</p><p>The fact of the matter was that he had abandoned her, just like she said, and now she was hurt and dealing with it the same way that he did.</p><p>“Exceptionally...statuesque woman,” he managed out at last. “So very tall and—threatening. I can tell that you missed me.”</p><p>“Thin. Fucking. Ice. <em>Babes,” </em>Isolde gritted out between her teeth.</p><p>“Sol,” he started again, “I <em>really</em> need your help.”</p><p>“With <em>what?”</em> she demanded, but she wasn’t throttling him, which was a good sign. “I’m not driving down to bumfuck nowhere Georgia to <em>parlay</em> with your baby mama, John. I won’t fucking do it. If she doesn’t want you, then that’s your problem and you need to solve it.”</p><p>John frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that at all. Solve his own problems? <em>Alone?</em> To an extent, maybe, but with the help of his friends. His <em>friend.</em> With her feminine wiles and cute little South African accent, Isolde could surely have had Elliot roped on the side of at least hearing him out in no time—and that was all he needed. Five minutes with her.</p><p>
  <em>I’m going to fucking kill you—</em>
</p><p>Maybe longer than five minutes.</p><p>“Well,” he began, mouth twisting around the words, “why not?”</p><p>The brunette stared at him, deadpan. “You’re joking.”</p><p>Already, John could feel his irritation welling up inside of him. Isolde was his <em>only</em> link. She was his <em>only</em> resource—and maybe she wouldn’t be, if news got out of Hope County.</p><p>“She likes—she gets along better with Faith than any of us, so I thought maybe if <em>you</em>—”</p><p>“So have <em>Faith</em> talk to her.”</p><p>“I can’t!” he snapped. “I <em>can’t.</em> They have to stay in Hope County right now, it’s not<em> safe—</em>”</p><p>And then he stopped himself, stopped the words before they could come out. He didn’t know how much Isolde knew about Eden’s Gate, but he imagined it had to be <em>enough</em>, given that she and Joseph had nearly been married once. Enough, but he didn’t want to be the one to explain to her the moral superiority of their actions given what they were faced with.</p><p>She dropped her hand, exhaling once, sharp and through her nose. “Please don’t ask me to pitch you on your behalf. I won’t have anything good to say.”</p><p>“Then go to Hope County,” he insisted, recklessly. “And—counsel those idiot brothers of mine. I’m not around to offer any kind of input, I’ve got my fucking hands full, and they need someone a little more reasonable than the both of them to keep them in check.”</p><p>Isolde crossed her arms over her chest. “<em>That’s</em> your Plan B? Johnny, the bar to achieve more reasonable than <em>you</em> is so very, <em>very</em> low.”</p><p>“If you refuse to help me with Elliot,” he clarified irritably, “then the next best thing is to have you handle the <em>other</em> frying pan I’m trying to juggle.”</p><p>Her eyes narrowed. “And what do you need legal counsel for if the world’s ending?”</p><p>“In case,” he replied.</p><p>
  <em>“‘In case.’”</em>
</p><p>“It doesn’t.” He watched her. “End.” And then: “It <em>will. </em>But just in case it doesn’t.”</p><p>Isolde’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked <em>very</em> much like she wanted to tell him to fuck off.</p><p>“It’s my family, Sol,” John insisted, more urgent now. “I need <em>someone</em> to look after them while I get this figured out. I can’t do it from here.”</p><p>The brunette sighed. She pinched the bridge of her nose, indicating that each second that was spent listening to him speak was inspiring in her a headache of momentous proportions; he reached up, careful, and put his hands on her shoulders.</p><p>“<em>Fine,”</em> she said, finally. “<em>Fine, </em>I’ll go to dumbfuck Hope County to keep track of your idiotic siblings. And it’s for <em>them.</em>”</p><p>Relief flooded his system. “Thank you, Sol.”</p><p>“And you <em>owe</em> me.”</p><p>“The most,” John agreed. And then: “I bet Joseph will be—”</p><p>“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” she snapped, having slapped a hand over his mouth. “You tell me <em>everything</em>, John. Every single thing from the second you left until just now. Got it?”</p><p>He grinned behind her hand; he was sure she could tell, anyway. When he nodded affirmatively, she dropped her hand and stifled a long, suffering sigh. It was the same kind of sound that Joseph made when he was trying not to be irritated—the difference being, of course, that Isolde very obviously <em>was.</em></p><p>After a moment of inward contemplation, his former (current?) business partner turned on her heel and marched out of the office. John took this as his cue to follow, trailing after her out of the office that had once been like a second home to him, before Joseph and before Eden’s Gate.</p><p><em>I’m sorry, </em>he thought he should say, when he watched the hard, sharp lines of Isolde’s face as she called up a car. <em>I’m sorry I abandoned you. I know you don’t have anyone, and I left anyway.</em></p><p>But he didn’t. He didn’t, and Isolde’s gaze flickered over to him and she said, “Stop looking at me like that, you fucking baby.”</p><p>John fought back a smile. “Like what?”</p><p>“Like you’re about to say something stupid, like <em>I’m sorry,”</em> Sol replied tartly.</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“Just don’t fuck this up.” She lifted her chin a little, defiant, cinching her winter coat tight around her midsection. “Getting the girl. Getting the baby. Don’t fuck it up.”</p><p>Isolde hadn’t changed a single bit, not <em>really</em>, even in all the time he’d been gone and all the time he’d known her. It was almost relieving to be back around her, listening to her complain about the snow and the cold and how she was just glad <em>she</em> didn’t have to drive in it, and John had better make sure someone was going to pick her up from the airport in Montana because she would <em>not</em> be driving herself all the way out to Hope County. For once, something in his life felt—steady. Constant.</p><p>“Promise,” he said, drawing her eyes again. “I promise not to fuck it up.”</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>“Who is this in my driveway?”</p><p>Her mother’s voice came drifting from the foyer, dragging her attention from the book she’d been reading curled up on the couch. Elliot hurried to her feet, clearing her throat and feeling Boomer’s excitement spike at her quick movements; he went racing to the door ahead of her, probably thinking they were going on another walk.</p><p>“My friend,” Elliot replied, slipping past her mother. “Sylvia.”</p><p>Scarlet’s eyes narrowed. Outside, Sylvia waved from the driver’s side of her truck, sliding out with her an armful of what could only be treasures from the salon store. “Who? Who are her parents?”</p><p>“I don’t remember her last name.”</p><p>“You’re law enforcement, Elliot, you should remember that kind of thing.”</p><p>“<em>Was,”</em> Elliot corrected her mother, disliking the little strain in her voice from saying the truth about her employment. <em>Was</em> in law enforcement. Would probably never be again, if she had her way. “I <em>was</em> in law enforcement. And—it’s not important. Please be nice.”</p><p>“I’m <em>always</em> nice, bunny,” Scarlet idled.</p><p><em>Sure, </em>Elliot thought, <em>sure you are, but not like you mean it.</em></p><p>She didn’t say, and only smiled thinly at her mother before Scarlet drifted away back into the living room, leaving Elliot to open the front door and let a bit of the cold in while she ushered Via across the threshold.</p><p>“Howdy!” Via chirped, having stomped the snow off of her boots before she came inside. She clicked her tongue. “Hair’s longer than I thought. I don’t know if I got enough color. Oh well.” She shrugged, smiling brightly, before she produced from her bag a small wire basket stuffed with what looked to be blueberry muffins.</p><p>“What are these?” Elliot asked.</p><p>“Not for you, missy. Mrs. Honeysett?” Via called, walking into the living room with Elliot trailing along behind helplessly. “I brought you some goodies.”</p><p>Scarlet looked inquisitively from the couch. The look said, <em>for me?</em>, even though she would know better than anyone that it was good manners to bring some small gift upon entering a person’s home. It was more like maybe Scarlet didn’t think anyone adhered to that sort of thing anymore, and so Via’s kindness caught her off guard.</p><p>“That’s very nice of you, honey,” Scarlet replied as Via set the basket down on the coffee table for her. “Thank you.”</p><p>“My pleasure!”</p><p>And then Via plunged onward, Boomer darting ahead of her to lead the way up the stairs. As they walked, the blonde ahead of her chatted conversationally about her foray into the world of beauty cosmetics—which she proclaimed she had never once done, as she thought she’d look funny with any kind of hair color that wasn’t her darker blonde—and Elliot felt a strange, settling moment of peace wash over her.</p><p>All thoughts of the strange dream from the other night were gone from her head. She’d slept, fitfully, the night before; but she hadn’t woken up halfway down the stairs, staring at nothing. <em>Into</em> nothing.</p><p>“Do you want to know the color before, or after?”</p><p>Sylvia stood in the center of Elliot’s room, holding in her arms a carefully-collected plastic bag full of products. As she stepped through the doorway after, Elliot could make out a few of the things—plastic bowls, gloves, boxes of what could only be hair dye—but she couldn’t see what color it was that Via had chosen. She’d given her friend only a few parameters to abide by: she didn’t want to go lighter blonde (no bleaching), and she wanted it only semi-permanent. Not only because her mother would have a conniption if she went for something more permanent, but because every google search had returned the same answer: it was <em>fine, </em>as long as the color was semi-permanent, to color her hair while she was pregnant.</p><p>God, didn’t that word just make her want to shrink up into nothing? In the last month and a half, it had always been her “condition”, like an ailment, and <em>sometimes</em> that’s what it felt like—it didn’t quite feel real, all just yet. The ultrasound at the doctor’s had made her feel strangely for the first few days after, but now she just felt like...</p><p><em>A vessel.</em> Her mother had said it best, then.</p><p>“After,” Elliot said after a moment, as Boomer danced around Via’s feet. “I want to be fully surprised.”</p><p>“You got it, boss,” Via said lightly, making Elliot’s chest spike and bloom with an unwanted familiarity. As the blonde made her way into the bathroom, she called out, “You’re gonna wanna change into a shirt you don’t care about, just so you know!”</p><p>“Right,” Elliot murmured, sighing and rifling through her drawers to find an old flannel her mother had tried once to throw out but which she’d clung to. <em>I need it, </em>she’d said, <em>for—painting, if I ever decide to do it. Or gardening. You don’t want me gardening in that chiffon top you bought me, do you?</em></p><p>She peeled the sweater off over her head, leaving herself in a tank top only as she worked to get the flannel unbuttoned.</p><p>“Elliot?” Via called from the bathroom. “I technically got two colors.”</p><p>“Looked like you bought out the entire salon store, from your haul,” Elliot replied over her shoulder.</p><p>“Do you <em>want</em> two colors?”</p><p>“No, Via, I do not want my hair dyed two colors.”</p><p>“Spoilsport.”</p><p>Elliot laughed. She was halfway through saying, “Well, look, I don’t want—” when Via said, “Okay, pick an arm,” and she turned to look at her friend without thinking.</p><p>Via’s eyes flickered. It was just once, one tiny movement, down from her face, but Elliot realized with a sudden and miserable sort of knowledge that the tanktop revealed more than half of her <em>WRATH</em> scar, that it was scarring and pink and definitely looked new, and that Sylvia—the only person she thought she might consider her friend—had seen it.</p><p>She hadn’t looked at it in a long time. She’d stopped changing in front of mirrors, stopped wiping the fog from the mirror before she’d re-dressed after a shower. Elliot couldn’t have even said when the last time she <em>had</em> looked at it was; once the cuts stopped needing treatment and cleaning, she’d left it alone. Bundled up in sweaters. Covered it and kept it out of sight, out of mind.</p><p>Now, though, something in her brain said, <em>you know exactly what it looks like. You know, because even if you haven’t been looking, you always knew what it was going to be.</em></p><p>A direct dichotomy to the gossamer scars lining her hips and stomach and the insides of her thighs. Pinkish red, and jagged, but made with care. With intent.</p><p>Via’s eyes darted back up to her face. Her lips had parted, as though to say something, and Elliot saw her eyelashes flutter as she processed some kind of emotion she was struggling not to show on her face.</p><p>She was going to be sick. Her stomach clenched, tightened, somersaulted violently. <em>I’m sorry, </em>she wanted to say, <em>I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to see, </em>but to apologize for the scar on her chest would make her <em>guilty</em> of the scar on her chest, and that would mean recognizing that she had asked for it. That even through the orchestration of a lie to try and get herself free, a part of Elliot had wanted it, craved the sting and the bite of the knife the same way she had a little over a year ago when she had made her own scars.</p><p>“I’m—” Elliot started, her arms feeling like lead when she tried to pull the flannel on. “Uh, I...”</p><p>“Well,” Via said after a moment, only a very tiny, tiny wobble in her voice, “pick an arm. Or the hound picks it for you.”</p><p>Ell blinked. She stared at the ground for a moment, her head feeling fuzzy—each second spent buttoning up the flannel felt like an eternity of being exposed, her violence and her sin and her <em>sickness</em> all put on display.</p><p>“We don’t—” Elliot paused. “We don’t have to, Via, I—think, um—”</p><p>“<em>If</em> you don’t want to,” Via interjected gently, “we don’t have to, but I came ready to get my hands dirty with hair dye.”</p><p>Swallowing thickly, Ell stood there for a moment longer, trying to figure out what it was she wanted. To be alone? Or to be busy? To rake her nails over the scar until it was nothing, until it didn’t exist anymore, until she could carve<em> that</em> out of her skin?</p><p>Via waited patiently by the bathroom door as she processed, not making any move to try and close the distance between them and also not making her feel like she was retreating out of the way, either.</p><p>“Left,” Elliot said after a moment, clearing her throat and finally lifting her gaze from the floor to meet Via’s, shy. “I pick the left arm.”</p><p>Via craned her neck over her shoulder to see what she’d picked and let out a low whistle. “Yes <em>ma’am, </em>that was going to be my choice too. Alright, stay here and I’ll get stuff mixed up. I watched about fifty video tutorials last night.”</p><p>Elliot watched Sylvia go, slipping back into the bathroom to get everything mixed up. It took a few more seconds to feel like she was back in her body; to feel like she’d returned from whatever place her mind had darted off to for hiding and safe-keeping. She tugged absently at the sleeve of her flannel and sniffed, and when Boomer wandered over and nosed at her leg, a smile pushed its way onto her face against all odds.</p><p><em>It’s fine,</em> she thought, even though it wasn’t. <em>It’s fine. Sylvia will ask, probably, and I’ll just...think of a lie to say.</em> As if there were something reasonable to explain the cardinal sin carved into her sternum.</p><p>Boomer whined at her feet. He sat down, tail swishing against the carpet of her bedroom, until she crouched down and rubbed his cheeks with her hands. He panted happy, hot doggy breath on her face, drinking in the attention, and she whispered very lovingly, “Your breath smells so bad.”</p><p><em>It’s fine, </em>the mantra now running through her head, because she hadn’t immediately asked Sylvia to leave and now she was going to have to pretend like it was okay and hope that Via didn’t think less of her. <em>It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.</em></p><p>Once she was done mixing the color, Via beckoned Elliot into the bathroom, sitting her down on a stool that had been pushed up against the vanity on the opposite end of the room. She couldn’t tell what color had been chosen based on the mixture; and even if she could, she wouldn’t have wanted to. It would be better to be surprised.</p><p>“Mighty fine bathroom you’ve got here, princess,” Via said conversationally, clipping the towel around Elliot’s shoulders and beginning to section off her hair. The stool was facing the window that stretched out into “How long have you been back in town, anyway?”</p><p>Elliot cleared her throat. Downstairs, the sound of her mother’s music came drifting up, wafting and warbled by distance; the feeling of chilly paste hit her scalp as Via began her work. “Just a few weeks. I was raised there, in Montana. Mama just comes down for a milder winter.”</p><p>Via made an <em>ah</em> sound, humming under her breath as she worked. She didn’t pry much beyond that, only asking once what it was Elliot did for work in Montana—“I was with the sheriff’s office,” being the most ambiguous and truthful answer she could muster up, and at which Via whistled and said, “<em>Knew</em> you looked like a tough cookie,” with a big grin Elliot could hear in her voice.</p><p>“Have you lived here your whole life?” she asked, when her hair was sufficiently pasted and stuck up away from her face and neck. She felt the little butterflies of excitement fluttering around in her stomach, but also the residual anxiety from earlier; though she could tell Via had tried very hard to keep her cool and act like it had never happened, the question would come up <em>eventually. </em>It had to, right?</p><p>Via leaned against the bathroom counter, carefully peeling off the gloves she had been wearing to apply the hair dye. “Yeah, I’ve been in Weyfield since I was just a little girl,” she replied, a wry little smile tugging at her lips. “Left for a little while to go to college. Studied over in the UK for a while—they’ve got <em>real </em>nice schools over there, and I thought I was gonna come back and start my own stable. But...” The blonde shrugged, her smile broadening. “I don’t know. It’s kinda nice, just...Helpin’. Bein’ there to help when people need it.”</p><p>Ell fidgeted absently with a loose thread on the towel. She had felt like that once, too—like she wanted to be around <em>helping</em> people. Like that was all she wanted. That’s why law enforcement had seemed like a great thing; because she felt strong, and in control of herself, and because she could help other people feel that way, too.</p><p>And it had just ended up being the worst thing that could have happened to her.</p><p>The timer on Via’s phone went off, buzzing against the marble of the counter. “Time to rinse!” she announced brightly, scooting Elliot over to the sink with her back to the mirror. Obediently, she tilted her head back at the blonde’s beckoning, closing her eyes while Via chatted lightly about what it was like to go to school in the UK, the water warm on her skin.</p><p>“Hey, Ell?” she asked after a moment, guiding Elliot back into a sitting position so she could scrunch her hair dry with the towel. Elliot opened her eyes, glancing at her inquisitively, and for a second Via hesitated—just for one second—before she said lightly, “I’m real glad you’re here.”</p><p>Sylvia’s words made her chest tighten a little. It was just a simple sentence—<em>I’m real glad you’re here</em>—but it felt different. It felt like she was saying, <em>I’m glad you made it this far. </em>Like she wanted to say something about the scar, about seeing it, but she knew what it would feel like to Elliot to put it out there so she said this, instead.</p><p>“Me too,” Ell replied, the words feeling tight coming out of her chest.</p><p>Sylvia flashed a smile, warm and genuine, and then said, “Now, close your eyes while I blow-dry your hair.”</p><p>It was another half an hour of Sylvia drying and then running a curling iron through her hair before she announced that Elliot could open her eyes; when she did, she was faced with a complete and utter stranger.</p><p>With <em>red hair.</em></p><p>“What the fuck?” Elliot said, the laughter at the absurdity of her now-ginger hair color bubbling out of her mouth. It wasn’t the same kind of russet-red that it looked like her dad’s had been in the photos, per se, but close.</p><p>“Do you like it?” Via asked. She was grinning, fanning the ends of the loose curls out from Elliot’s face. “I went lighter around the edges by your face. That’s called <em>baby lights,</em> you know. Very professional.” She sounded quite pleased with herself. “Brings out your freckles, too.”</p><p>“I—” She swallowed thickly. There were so many times in the past month that she had looked at herself in the mirror and felt far away, gone from herself, like she had been staring at someone she didn’t recognize. But this was a <em>different</em> kind of unfamiliarity, a different brand of it—new. A reinvention.</p><p>Elliot took in a little breath and fought to keep her smile down. “I love it, Via.”</p><p>“Good!” her friend exclaimed. “It looks good on you. Gal at the store said it’d last you a few months, if you take the time to touch it up occasionally.”</p><p>“I’ll probably forget,” Elliot admitted, “but thank you. Again, I mean—I should have said it earlier. Thank you for...” <em>Being my friend. </em>“...Doing this.”</p><p>Via’s expression softened. With her hands on Elliot’s shoulders, their gazes met through the mirror and she said, “Sure thing, princess.” And then, lighter: “It wasn’t anythin’ at all, anyway. Gave me a chance to binge hair dye tutorials and now I’m the best at just one more thing than Wyatt. He’s gonna be <em>so</em> mad when he finds out how much cooler I am than him.”</p><p>It wasn’t just <em>nothing, </em>Elliot thought, but did not want to say. Sylvia seemed the type to be uncomfortable accepting genuine compliments, or at the very least would only end up waving them away, and after how easily she’d glossed over that moment before, maybe she could do the same for her.</p><p>“Well!” Sylvia made the single-word announcement with a cheerful smile. “What say you we go out and enjoy this new hair, huh?”</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>John could not <em>wait </em>to stop living out of his car.</p><p>It was one thing to do it for like, a day. Even a handful. It was another to do it for, now, over a week, to exist out of a shitty Honda Accord, and to—<em>ugh</em>—eat gas station food and whatever it was he could pick up and pay for in cash. He only had whatever it was he’d lifted from the compound (not like they were going to need money <em>anyway</em>) because he didn’t want to be using a credit card or a debit card in his name in any capacity.</p><p>He’d just dropped Isolde off at the airport, promising her that she’d have someone waiting there for her in Montana when her flight arrived so that she would not have to spend a <em>second</em> waiting around to get taken to Hope County. She’d refused to let him pay for her ticket, and instead insisted that she’d be sending him an invoice to bill him for her time.</p><p>“That’s twelve-hundred an <em>hour,</em> asshole,” she’d said, to which he’d replied, “What do you need money for if the world is going to end?”</p><p>Isolde had sighed, <em>oh, Johnny, </em>the way that she did, grabbing his jaw with her hand and jostling his face a little before she said, “If the world’s gonna end, don’t worry about your bank account, baby,” and turned heel to take the first flight out of Georgia and to Montana.</p><p>And that’s how John found himself parked across the street from a place called the <em>Wild Rose, </em>eating food out of a styrofoam box. Like a heathen. </p><p>His plan was to eat, try and get some sleep, and then figure out a game plan. With sleep would come a clearer mind, and with a clearer mind would come the means by which to explain to Elliot that she had been mistaken—and that was <em>fine,</em> that she was, but now they needed to stop playing this little game and get her <em>and</em> the baby back home and safe.</p><p>With his window rolled down, John had managed to tune out most of the noise of people milling about the sidewalks and chatting, going in and out of stores glittering with fancy lights. For as small as Weyfield was, it was a pretty <em>boutique</em> town—lots of little shops that likely had price tags bigger than half the city could afford, but would spend anyway. Jacob had been right when he’d suggest old money was at play.</p><p>“Goodnight <em>Hannah</em>, Miss Honey, look at you!” came drifting through his window, altogether grating and too loud for him to ignore completely, as the offending words came spiking high and incredulous. John rolled his eyes, dropping his napkin into the styrofoam box and flipping the page in his book. <em>Fucking cowboys, </em>he thought tiredly.</p><p>But then: “Could you <em>be</em> any louder?”</p><p>It was Elliot. Her voice—which he hadn’t heard since their fateful departure—shy and incredulous at once, smothered in laughter. He hadn’t heard her laugh in...weeks, was it now? Longer than that, maybe?</p><p>He glanced up through the windshield. He didn’t <em>see</em> Elliot in the cluster of people crowding around outside of the bar he’d just picked up his food from. So where was she? Had he just heard someone that sounded like her?</p><p>But then a spunky blonde threw her arms around the shoulders of a redheaded woman with her back to him and declared, “Doesn’t Elliot just look so good in red, Wyatt?” and in response, the ginger turned her face away and groaned; he caught the side profile of her, and it <em>was</em>—</p><p>It <em>was</em> Elliot. With red hair. <em>His</em> hellcat, <em>ginger. </em></p><p>“What the fuck,” he said, exhaling and narrowing his eyes. He didn’t recognize this girl hanging around her, nor the man who seemed <em>very</em> comfortable calling her something as stupid as <em>Miss Honey</em>. He rolled the window down, letting the car roll forward where it was parked against the sidewalk just a little.</p><p>“Gonna have to change your nickname,” the man said amusedly, reaching up, “from Miss Honey to <em>Miss Freckles</em>, don’t you—?”</p><p>John felt a red-hot spike of anger rush through him at the sight of the blonde reaching for a strand of Elliot’s hair—it had gotten <em>long</em>, or maybe he was just used to seeing it in a ponytail?—and went to tug on the curl playfully. It was a gesture John was sure <em>he</em> had done at one time or another, taken her hair and wound a loose curl around his finger or brushed it to the side when he was—</p><p>When she was his. Entirely, completely, <em>solely</em> his, saying <em>his</em> name, breathing it out like a prayer and digging her nails into his skin and—</p><p>The anger was quickly replaced by something close to ringing self-satisfaction when he saw Elliot’s hand jerk up and smack the blonde’s own hand away from her hair. Her face went immediately red, and she opened her mouth to say something; probably an apology, or some kind of explanation.</p><p>“Wyatt, haven’t you ever heard the sayin’?” The woman next to Elliot exclaimed. “Don’t mess with a woman when she’s in her redhead phase! Goodness, and I just spent all that time doing her hair, too.”</p><p>The man, Wyatt, looked sheepish. “You’re right, I know better.” And then, in a tone so sincere and genuine it made John want to puke: “Sorry I spooked you, Freckles.”</p><p>Elliot shook her head, clearing her throat; her cheeks were still tinted pink. “Sorry I hit you.”</p><p>“Yeah, now that you mention it, that was quite a smack, lady!” he exclaimed, eliciting an eye roll in both women. “I’m just sayin’, makes me less worried about Miss Honeysett walkin’ herself to her car at night, you know? Can handle herself just fine, I’d think.”</p><p>The blonde, her arm looped through Elliot’s, groaned. “<em>C’mon,</em> are we gonna get trivia night goin’ or just stand out here and freeze to death?”</p><p>“Bossy bossy! Fine, let’s get a move on then.”</p><p>As the trio moved inside, the blonde woman protectively ushering Elliot in first and then trailing after along with Wyatt, John felt a frown settle on his face. He hadn’t seen Elliot make any friends since he’d been in Weyfield—which couldn’t have been <em>that</em> much longer since <em>she’d</em> been in Weyfield, could it? So who were these people, dyeing her hair and touching her and acting like they knew who she was? That they were <em>friends?</em></p><p>You couldn’t be friends with someone you didn’t know the truth about. And he was certain that they didn’t; how could they? It took a special kind of person to look at the things Elliot had done and view them for what they had been, really—true and unfettered acts of survival.</p><p>“Well,” John murmured, shifting the gear into drive, “we’ll just have to make sure that won’t be a problem, won’t we?”</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>By the time Elliot had gotten dropped off back at home, she’d listened to Sylvia and Wyatt bicker in the car the entire way back to her mother’s house—even though it <em>did</em> feel nice, to just sit in the passenger seat and have Wyatt lean up to poke at Sylvia while she drove, grinning boyishly and charmingly—the entire way. There was a huge part of her heart that didn’t want to depart the warmth and security of the truck’s cab, listening as the siblings chattered easily between themselves, never once requiring anything out of her but also not making her feel alone.</p><p>It was sad to think that she felt alone so often, even when she was around other people. Around her mother. <em>I feel alone, when I’m with you.</em></p><p>“Hey, Freckles!” Wyatt called out from the car window as she made her way up to the front door. She stopped and looked back at him.</p><p>“What is it, Sir ‘Texas Is The Biggest State In The U.S. By Area’?”</p><p>The blonde grinned at her. “I really do like the red on you. And—” He paused. “Sorry again. About earlier.”</p><p>Elliot felt her stomach twist with a sort of nervous pleasantness. “It’s alright, Wyatt.”</p><p>“Good <em>Lord</em> I wish he’d stop talkin’,” Sylvia exclaimed from the driver’s seat. “Should see him, Ell, he’s sweatin’ like a sinner in church.”</p><p>“No I am <em>not, </em>Sylvia Sutton West.”</p><p>Elliot fought back a smile. “Goodnight, you two.”</p><p>Sylvia waved through the front window. “‘Night, Ell!”</p><p>Turning and heading through the front door, she watched the headlights flash across the front of the house and then recede as they turned back around and headed down the winding drive. Boomer was waiting inside for her patiently, and her mother leaned up against the archway that led into the front sitting room.</p><p>She’d been less than thrilled about the hair dye, obviously.</p><p>“Did you have a nice time?” Scarlet asked.</p><p>“At trivia?”</p><p>“Yes,” her mother replied, “considering that your poor hair is screaming to have that cheap dye stripped out of it, I would hope at least your outing would make it worthwhile.”</p><p>Elliot rolled her eyes. “I think it looks nice, mama.”</p><p>“Well, I just don’t understand <em>why</em>, bunny,” Scarlet insisted, as Elliot brushed past her and into the living room. “You’ve always liked your blonde hair. It’s so lovely. People pay a lot of money to get their hair that blonde, you know, and now you—”</p><p>And then her mother stopped short. Elliot turned at the foot of the stairs to look at her expectantly, arching a brow upward. Scarlet’s mouth turned downwards in a deep frown.</p><p>“Now you look even more like your father,” is what her mother finally said.</p><p>Elliot wished that she hadn’t. She wished that she hadn’t said anything and that she would just learn when enough was enough. The words were enough to sour what remained of her good mood, and she heaved a big, sharp sigh through her nose as she reminded herself that this was her <em>mother, </em>and that telling her to <em>fuck off</em> would not get her anywhere.</p><p>Anywhere good, at least.</p><p>“Well,” Elliot replied tightly, “he did <em>sire</em> me, so that’s that, I suppose.”</p><p>“Elliot—”</p><p>And she turned and marched up the stairs, tuning out the sound of her mother’s long-suffering sigh that trailed after her. She didn’t want to think about her mother’s disappointment, or the fact that her now-red hair made her look like a man she barely remembered—</p><p>(—even though <em>that</em> wasn’t necessarily true, because she did remember her father, did remember the day he took her down to the mall and let her wander around until he “lost” her and he left, remembered it <em>very</em> clearly—)</p><p>—or that every time she started to feel good about something, it somehow got ruined.</p><p>Half-exhausted and not nearly tired enough to get any real sleep, she changed out of her clothes and into some sleep shorts and a t-shirt, crawling into bed with Boomer nestled beside her. She laid there for about a minute before she snatched the bottle of sleeping pills off of her bedside table and swallowed one.</p><p><em>Please, </em>she thought, shutting the light off, <em>please just let me get some sleep.</em></p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>She was standing at the center of the Eden’s Gate compound.</p><p>Vicious fluorescents poured cold, white-blue light onto the ground. Her feet touched bare earth. She was freezing, but there was no snow on the ground, and as she stood there looking around she thought, <em>why on earth is it so cold?</em></p><p>The open yard of the compound stretched out ahead of her. Elliot took a step forward, and then another, and as she did the world beneath her seemed to curve; bending and shifting forward, lurching until she thought she was going to fall over, but she never did—just kept moving, walking and walking as though the ground beneath her feet were a treadmill, being fed into and spit back out by the same gargantuan monster at the earth’s core.</p><p>She went far, and nowhere, all at once. In her vision loomed the front door of her house; the world fell away outside of the walls, disappearing into black nothingness as she carried herself up the front steps and through the front door.</p><p><em>Hello?,</em> Elliot wanted to say, to the dark empty insides of a house that should have felt familiar but only looked strange to her. <em>Hello, is anyone there?,</em> she wanted to say, but her mouth would not open, and when she stepped through the archway into the living room, she saw a dark figure rise from the couch and turn to her.</p><p>It was Joey—</p><p>(<em>‘s corpse, bruised and dark and blooming with flowers that were now rotting, the sickening scent of dying flora covering up the smell of a rotted flesh, the gaping cavern of her chest and ribs filled with petals turning brown and black with age, dirt matted in her hair and</em> <em>she opened her mouth, Joey opened her mouth and all that came out were flowers, more flowers, spitting and spitting out of her until she was crying and reaching for Elliot and</em> <em>she said, Elli, Elli, where are you? I’ve been looking for you all this time, where are you, why did you leave me, why did you</em>—)</p><p>And Elliot turned, and she ran.</p><p>The ground turned wet and cold beneath her feet. It was dark, and she couldn’t see, but she could <em>feel</em>—the sting of snow against her bare feet, the puff of hot, wet hair coming out of her mouth and dissolving in the chilled air.</p><p>A strange noise—a car door?—echoed around her, in the dark, and she opened her eyes.</p><p>It took a few seconds for the world to come back, for Elliot to realize that she was standing outside of her house. She was standing outside of her house, in Georgia, barefoot in the snow, stopped by the fence that led out into pastureland and eventually, the woods.</p><p>An uncomfortable buzzing began to die down in her mouth, vibrating behind her eyes and down into her molars. The sticky, hot taste of copper had flooded her mouth, and in front of her, the woods waited.</p><p><em>That</em> was an odd thought. The woods,</p><p>(<em>It waits for you</em>)</p><p>waiting for her. Infinite and gaping and</p><p>(<em>It waits for us all</em>)</p><p>patient, and wide, and</p><p>(<em>and it will have you</em>)</p><p>“Elliot?”</p><p>It was her mother’s voice. Elliot blinked, turning around toward the house. The windows glimmered like little eyes, little ship lights in a sea of darkness cloaking the house in the late evening. Scarlet stood in the doorway to the house, and this far away, she couldn’t read the expression on her face.</p><p>“What are you doing out here, bunny?” her mother asked. “You’ll get sick. Are you <em>barefoot?</em> Come here, quick.”</p><p>Elliot blinked rapidly. She must have been sleepwalking. Her chest ached, like she had been about to cry, and the image of Joey—of Joey’s <em>corpse</em>—reaching for her made the burn in her eyes and nose all the more real, the threat of tears looming over her.</p><p>“I’m coming,” she managed out, her voice hoarse as she struggled to walk through the calf-deep snow and up to the porch, her feet stinging from the ice. Her mother beckoned more insistently, as though she could go any faster, and when she reached the front porch she ushered her in.</p><p>“What were you doing?” she asked, frowning as she guided Elliot upstairs and to the bathroom attached to her bedroom. In her room, the tv’s screen flickered on black static. Had she turned it on when she had gone to bed? “Out in the cold like that? </p><p>“I think, um, just sleepwalking,” Elliot replied, her brain too foggy and tired to muddle through a more heated response. As though she had gone out there on <em>purpose.</em></p><p>She stood by numbly as her mother drew a bath, barely listening to the scolding she was getting. It wasn’t until her mother had left her alone to undress and climb into the hot water, and the burning turned to pins and needles in her hands and feet, that Elliot was able to take in a real breath she had not realized she’d been holding.</p><p><em>Something is wrong with me, </em>she thought, and it should have felt miserable but she just felt <em>empty</em>, the thought inspiring in her only apathy.</p><p>
  <em>Something is wrong with me, and I don’t know what it is.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, you can find me on <a href="https://proudspires.tumblr.com/">tumblr dot hell</a>, crying about characters and posting mediocre edits. Come say hi!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. advent</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"You remember too much,<br/>my mother said recently.</p><p>Why hold onto that? And I said,<br/>Where can I put it down?"<br/>— Anne Carson, from <i>The Glass Essay</i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am so sorry that this chapter took so long to come around, but I hope it's worth the wait! We're finally getting somewhere with these two dummies, as well as a few little things starting to develop along the way. I'm really pleased with how this chapter finally came out, because it was giving me some trouble to start with, but thankfully I have some wonderful people around to help keep me motivated and not letting me get discouraged!</p><p>Special thank you to my beta reader, starcrier, for helping me with the barebones skeleton of this chapter and not letting me get too in my head about it. And a thank you to my loves, shallow-gravy and baeogorath, for lending me their eyes as well as I tried to muddle through the parts of this that felt so, so difficult. I adore you all so much!!</p><p>Warnings for this chapter are pretty slim; naughty language, brief mentions of what could-be prenatal depression. Elliot considers the logistics of murder. Nothing new.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Isolde fucking <em> hated </em> Montana.</p><p>Maybe “hated” was a bit strong of a term, but all she could feel as she cinched her coat tighter around her and waded through crowds of milling, purposeless passersby in the airport was that she could not wait to leave—and she had only touched down minutes ago.</p><p>That she was even here at all was a miracle in and of itself: she didn’t <em>owe </em> John Seed anything. Not a favor, not the time of day, not the firing of her neurons to process her furious disdain for him. If anything, John owed her for up and fucking off for no good reason. If anything, <em> he </em>should be the one doing <em>her </em>a favor. Strapping him to a bed of nails on the hood of a car and watching him suffer while she drove over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake would have been a good start.</p><p><em> I need your help, Sol, </em>he’d said, like he didn’t have two fucking hands and eyes and a mediocre brain of his own to get things done.</p><p>“Fucker,” Isolde gritted out between her teeth. “Fucking—stupid—fuckface. <em> Fuck </em> I hate him. I hate him.”</p><p>But that wasn’t really true, was it? She didn’t hate John, not in the same capacity that she actually hated people, like the ex-husband that so rarely registered in her brain nowadays. For all of his posturing and Napoleon syndrome, John had been her only friend, the only person that she trusted, for a <em> very </em>long time.</p><p><em> Fuck me, </em> she thought, <em> I’m in a bad spot if that’s the case. </em></p><p>It was.</p><p>Isolde stepped out of the airport and into the frigid air of the outside pick-up area. Her eyes scanned the area, and while she thought for <em>certain </em>she saw a familiar redhead right away, he was leaned up against a beat-up, mud-splattered truck and <em>surely </em> Jacob Seed did not think he was going to put her in a metal death trap that looked like it wasn’t going to make it five minutes on the highway.</p><p>He waved to catch her attention. Isolde stayed firmly put, and she saw—with a little lick of amusement whispering inside of her—Jacob’s teeth flash in a grin.</p><p>“Sol,” he called, beginning to saunter over, “I <em> know </em> you can see me.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, do I know you?” she feigned tartly. “I was supposed to be getting picked up by an actual vehicle, not...” She leaned around Jacob’s broad-shouldered figure to peer pointedly at the beater truck, which had not miraculously become better in the last thirty seconds. “...three pieces of metal loosely held together by a shit welding job.”</p><p>Jacob’s wolfish smile did not dim. “Good to see you, too.”</p><p>“Hello, my darling.” She beckoned him with one hand, giving him a one-armed hug once he was within range. “I suppose you <em> are </em> the transportation John promised, then.”</p><p>“None other,” Jacob replied.</p><p>“Surely, no expense was spared.”</p><p>“Surely.”</p><p>Jacob relinquished her of the weight of her suitcase, lifting it with ease and beckoning with a tilt of his head for her to follow. She did, even though her reservations about getting into a fucked up Toyota had not abated; as the eldest Seed brother loaded the suitcase into the back “seat” (being used loosely in this context), Isolde hoisted herself up into the passenger seat.</p><p>“Hm,” was what came out of her once she was buckled in, a singular expression of her displeasure, and the redhead settled into the driver’s seat next to her.</p><p>He glanced over, his smile having relaxed into something more ambivalent. He said, “I love that you haven’t changed a bit,” and began to pull out of the pick-up lane.</p><p>“It is one of my most charming qualities, I think.”</p><p>“How did Johnny convince you to come all this way?” he asked, and Isolde stifled a long-suffering sigh that tried to worm its way out of her.</p><p>“He told me what helpless idiots you are without him,” she replied. Shrugging out of her jacket, she pushed it into the back seat and turned the heat in the truck down. “Did a whole bit. You would have found it entertaining, I think. It was all <em> Sol, you’re so tall and threatening, please help me. </em>I hate that he knows exactly how I like to be complimented.”</p><p>“Well, he’d have to really pull out the stops to get you to come back and help Joseph,” Jacob acquiesced, with the same kind of visceral, gut-punch perception he had always operated and which Soli had expected and still hoped he wouldn’t apply.</p><p>Isolde’s mouth pressed into a thin line. <em> Fuck you, </em> she thought, but there was no venom, because he wasn’t wrong. She wouldn’t have come back if John hadn’t really tried, if he hadn’t made it obvious that he was desperate. It did bother her, a little, to see John like that—haphazard and urgent, scrabbling for a foothold wherever he could get one. She just hoped he wasn’t overshooting his shot with the mother of his unborn child.</p><p>“Yeah,” Sol said after a moment, “I guess he did.”</p><p>Jacob gave her a look. It was a look that said, <em> come on now, Sol, </em> because if there was one unfortunate thing about having dated Joseph Seed and worked with the baby brother for years on end, it was that Jacob—arguably the most perceptive and intelligent of the whole brood—had come to understand her quite well. <em> So </em>annoying.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re here,” is what he said after a minute. “Be nice to have a fresh face around, all things considered.”</p><p>“You mean all the killing.” Her words came out clipped, but if Jacob felt any particular way about it, it didn’t show on his face.</p><p>“Well,” he acquiesced, and that was <em>all </em>that came out of his mouth for at least two heartbeats.</p><p>Isolde narrowed her eyes, watching the redhead move methodically as he hit cruise control and settled back against his seat a bit.</p><p>She prompted, tightly, “Well?”</p><p>“Don’t give me that, Sol,” he cautioned her. “You can use that tone on Johnny and Joseph, but you can’t use it on me. We neither fuck nor run a business together.”</p><p>“I remember now why you’re unbearable. How silly of me, to have forgotten.”</p><p>“I was going to <em> say,” </em> Jacob continued, as though she had not spoken at all, “that the killing really shouldn’t be a point of contention for you.”</p><p>And then, with the kind of spiteful accuracy that she truly detested: “Of all people.”</p><p><em> Shut up. </em> The words sat there, on the tip of her tongue, threatening. Only Jacob would get away speaking to her like this. She supposed that made them hearty exceptions for each other, didn’t it? All the same, the things that she had done—or rather, the things that Joseph had done, <em> for her </em>—were in the past, and long-since buried. Literally and figuratively.</p><p>“Here I was, thinking you were my favorite,” she replied primly, and <em>this </em>elicited a laugh out of Jacob, short and barked out but nonetheless genuine. “Tell me you didn’t volunteer to pick me up just so you could start a fight with me. Is it that boring, out there in God’s Country?”</p><p>“I never said I volunteered.”</p><p>“But you <em> did,” </em> she countered, “didn’t you?”</p><p>Jacob glanced at her, then focused his gaze back on the road. “God’s Country is pretty boring, right about now. But there’s been a bit of excitement.”</p><p>“Ah, yes,” she replied, foregoing her irritation with his little jab. “Why don’t we compare what John told me with the truth, then?”</p><p>“Sounds like a fun game to pass the time.”</p><p>Isolde had the feeling they’d at least have a lot to <em>fill </em>the time, at any rate.</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Eden’s Gate was not what she had anticipated.</p><p>The <em>cult </em>aspect—that was one thing. She could deal with a cult. She could deal with <em>two </em>cults, even, which if what Jacob told her was accurate—and she assumed that it was, because he had no motive to lie to her—sounded like it was actively happening, or had just finished happening.</p><p>The compound’s yard looked like a graveyard. As the truck, guided by Jacob’s hands on the steering wheel, rolled in, Isolde took a moment to sweep her eyes over everything as meticulously as possible. Small, meek buildings, the white wiring of a long trellis stretching over the yard, and—blood. Splattered across some of the buildings. Sins in their most classical names, graffitied here and there.</p><p>It was <em>dirty. </em> Nothing looked well-insulated. The media would absolutely have had a fucking field day with this. What few people she saw out and about, milling around and regarding the truck’s arrival with quiet, venomous curiosity, might as well have been plucked straight out of the homeless shelter.</p><p>When Joseph had told her what his plans were, when he had started dropping tiny scraps of information—because he wanted her to ask for more, wanted to pique her interest—he had never told her it would be...Well.</p><p>
  <em> This. </em>
</p><p>“This is a fucking joke,” Isolde said, without thinking, turning to look at Jacob. The redhead regarded her with an even-keel gaze, putting the truck in park and tilting his chin, almost defiantly.</p><p>“What is?” he asked, and it was <em>sort </em>of there—a tiny, tiny little threat. A demand. <em> What’s funny, Isolde? What do you think is a joke? </em>Surely, the eldest Seed had regarded many defectors and insurgents with the same kind of look. Surely, she knew, he was waiting for her to say something that would make her regret having voiced her opinion.</p><p>Purposefully, Isolde replied, “This place.” When Jacob exhaled out of his nose, sharp and impatient, she watched the muscle of his jaw flex, his teeth clenching; before he could open his mouth, she plunged on, “Jacob, you’re not a fucking idiot.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Jacob snipped, not sounding very grateful at all.</p><p>“The media would lose their fucking shit over this place. It would be a <em> madhouse </em>.”</p><p>The redhead sucked his teeth. “You really aren’t getting it, aren’t you?” he asked after a moment of silence had lapsed between them. “There won’t <em>be </em>any fuckin’ media, Isolde. Not if Joseph’s right. And he’s been right about everything else. There won’t be fuck all left to care about beyond your own life.”</p><p>“Yeah, except <em> I </em> have to care about them like they’re going to be here!” Isolde snapped. “That’s the whole reason I’m here, you know. <em> In case. </em> John sent me to do damage control because he knows you and Joseph are so tunnel-vision you don’t have any kind of back-up plan.”</p><p>His eyes narrowed. “That’s funny. A back-up plan, for the collapse of the world as we know it.”</p><p>“Finally,” she bit out, “you get my sense of humor.” She grabbed the handle of the door, but before she opened it, she said, “<em> If </em> Joseph’s right.”</p><p>Jacob stilled beside her, head cocked as though he were really listening to her, taking in her words. “What?”</p><p>“You said,” Isolde replied tartly, “<em> if </em> Joseph’s right.”</p><p>She turned her head to look at him, trying to discern anything in his expression that might have let her glean some insight on where it was that Jacob really stood. Of all of the Seed children, he had always struck her as the least fanatical—devoted, surely. Structured and disciplined and rigorous and devoted, yes. But not in the way that John had been about Joseph, and maybe was still.</p><p>Of course, she saw nothing that indicated Jacob was going to bite the bait.</p><p>“Just remember,” Isolde told him, pushing the passenger door open and feeling the bite of winter dig straight into her bones, “<em> you </em>said that, not me.”</p><p>She slid out of the passenger seat, grabbing her suitcase from the back seat and hauling it out. Jacob sighed from the front seat, passing a hand over his face before he climbed out of the driver’s seat and came around the front, stilling her hands over the handle of her suitcase.</p><p>“Joseph doesn’t know you’re here,” he told her, glossing over her little barb as though it had never happened. He disengaged her suitcase from the back of the truck with ease, lifting it over her head and keeping it out of the snow. “Just as a heads up.”</p><p>“He <em> doesn’t—?” </em> She felt the incredulous spike in her voice. “Bloody <em> fucking </em> hell, did you not tell him?”</p><p>“Why would I?” the redhead replied idly, beginning to walk toward the chapel without waiting for her. The implication lay there—<em> why would I, when it’s so much more interesting to have not? </em>—reminding Isolde that in many ways, Jacob Seed was still a Big Brother that did not so often enjoy bending to the will and request of his younger sibling.</p><p>She picked her way across the yard, stomping the snow off of her shoes before she stepped into the chapel that Jacob had disappeared into. It was empty, and dark; a heater ran, fruitless and futile, in the far corner. <em> That’s going to change, </em> she thought tiredly. <em> I won’t be losing my fingers for this shithole. </em></p><p>“Look who I found at the airport,” Jacob announced to the figure standing at the front of the church. Isolde felt her insides twist with a strange kind of <em>dreadful </em>anticipation, because the second the figure turned around, she recognized him immediately. Even dimly backlit by the cold winter light filtering through the symbol carved out of the front of the chapel, even after so much time apart. Of course, she thought, she would have recognized him <em>anywhere. </em></p><p>Joseph said, “Isolde,” like he wasn’t at all surprised to find her there.</p><p>“Hello, Joseph,” she greeted, managing to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “I’ve only just learned John did not choose to inform you of my impending arrival.” <em> And apparently, neither did God. </em></p><p>“No,” the man agreed. He was bundled up in a dark-colored sweater, high-necked, the hair pulled back from his face. “But I haven’t spoken to John recently. And what did he send you for?”</p><p>Isolde blinked at him, brows lifting on her face. “Pardon?”</p><p>“What purpose?” he reiterated. “To what end?”</p><p>It was so completely and utterly dismissive that Isolde thought she had hallucinated Joseph’s blatant disrespect. The Joseph <em>she </em>had known had, at least, more grace and tact when it came to being a thoughtless bastard.</p><p>“To what—?” <em> Fuck you fuck you fuck you, </em> that vicious, still-wounded thing inside of her whispered, furious. <em> Fuck you, you stupid smug fucker, fuck you so fucking hard. </em> To what <em>end? </em> He couldn’t have possibly descended into sheer stupidity as <em>well </em>as delusional grandeur, could he have?</p><p>Jacob said, almost in an effort to mediate, “Johnny thought we could use the support.”</p><p>“To what <em> end?” </em> Soli demanded, incredulous. “You’ve got half of Montana’s homeless population dragging their emaciated corpses through the snow outside, Joseph. What <em> ‘purpose’ </em>do you think I’m here for?”</p><p>Joseph’s eyes narrowed. His expression remained serene otherwise, no flex of irritated muscle that she could see. He’d always been nearly impossible for her to read—plenty of times she’d said things just to push his buttons, just to see him flinch, just to see what he’d do. It had both pleased and infuriated him, then.</p><p>Now, she hoped only for the latter.</p><p>“You’re here for PR, then,” is what he said, at last. “A fall-back. Because John has doubts.”</p><p>“Taking one quick look at your congregation, I can see why.”</p><p>“Faith and devotion are not always the easiest routes,” Joseph replied, lifting his chin in a tiny spark of defiance. “And they <em>are. </em> Devoted.”</p><p>“They <em> are,” </em> Isolde said tightly, “ <em> filthy</em>, Joseph.”</p><p>There was a tiny, almost imperceptible <em>click</em>, and she realized with a sense of satisfaction that it was Joseph’s molars, setting and grinding together. The moment stretched between the two of them like that, drawn tight and tense by her blatant disdain and Joseph’s refusal to acknowledge that they probably needed her, and finally Jacob cleared his throat.</p><p>“So glad,” he said lightly, rubbing his hands together. “So glad to have you back around, Sol. Why don’t I show you where you’ll be staying?”</p><p>Isolde sucked her teeth. “Fine,” she replied tartly. “And it ought to have a better fucking heater than this.”</p><p>“Whatever you want, princess.”</p><p>As Jacob swung her suitcase over his shoulder, heading for the door that led out through the back of the chapel, Isolde cinched her coat tight around her waist and followed.</p><p>“Soli,” Joseph said, the utterance of a nickname so few had ever been allowed to use for her grinding her movements to a halt. She took in a short, sharp breath through her nose, turning to look at the man over her shoulder.</p><p>He was regarding her curiously, his eyes taking a relaxed, leisurely sweep over her despite the unpleasant interaction they had just endured.</p><p><em> “What, </em>Joseph?” she asked, her words coming out short and biting.</p><p>“You haven’t changed a bit.” The corner of his mouth ticked upward. “I’m glad you’re here.”</p><p>It wasn’t what she had expected or anticipated. Even in a perfect world where they were absolutely cordial with each other, she would haven’t expected <em>this. </em>The whole thing had to be some kind of game: already, the mental chess game had begun, and she had been caught lagging unpleasantly behind on the first move.</p><p>So she said, “Good,” and turned back around, marching devoutly after Jacob.</p><p>“You should be.”</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>He had been <em>this </em>close.</p><p>John hadn’t intended on being as loud as he was, when he got out of his car. But the sight of Elliot wandering out of her front door, barefoot and in nothing but shorts and t-shirt, had inspired quite a bit of concern; he’d still <em>waited, </em>watching her. Watching her walk out to the fence that he knew led out to the pastures and eventually the woods, and then stood there.</p><p>Much like the other night, she only stood. He couldn’t see her <em>do </em>anything except be there—standing, watching the woods, her face relaxed and serene.</p><p>It filled him with the same kind of dread it had when he’d seen her do it through the windows, standing at the top of the stairs with her face lax and her eyes open. Seeing it again, he was now more certain than ever it was a recent development, and that she had not been sleep-walking back in Hope County; at the very least, not when he had been around her.</p><p>And red. Her hair was so red—the same kind of coppery-ginger that he’d seen the man in their family photos sporting, the man who had been entirely absent from any other photos past what seemed to be the age of eight. Her hair was so red, and so <em>long</em>, sprawling down to her shoulder blades and sweeping across the thin white cotton of her sleep shirt. </p><p>When ten minutes passed and he saw no change, he thought, <em> that just won’t fucking do, </em> and opened the car door, shutting it behind him with a new sense of urgency. He hadn’t wanted to get her like <em>this </em>when something was so clearly unsettling her, but if that’s what it had to be, then—</p><p>But the front door of her house opened, and he heard the woman that he thought had to be Elliot’s mother calling for her, and he’d stopped himself. It would have been worse if he’d been halfway down the drive to her, but this far away he could duck behind the Honda he’d been calling his home and act like he hadn’t gotten out at all.</p><p>Somewhere down the street—down in the far end of the widely-spaced row of old money houses—the sound of a car starting and pulling away echoed.</p><p>It could have been nothing, he thought. It could have been, but what if it <em>wasn’t? </em></p><p>What if it <em>wasn’t nothing? </em></p><p>John listened to the sound of Elliot muddle through a response to her mother, words slurring tiredly as she stepped through the snow. It wasn’t until he heard the front door of the house close and the voices fade out of existence that he finally allowed himself to climb back into his car, turning the key in the ignition and cranking the heat up.</p><p>He had been <em>this </em>close to her. As he sat in his car, listening to the heat tick against the cold metal of the engine, John thought that maybe he would not be able to be as careful as he would have liked with this whole thing. Time was rapidly running out, and things were only going to get worse the longer he spent dallying.</p><p>Besides—if memory served him correctly, Elliot had always slept better with him there. Even if it wasn’t the most ideal <em>reunion </em>he could have pictured, he thought it was as close as he was going to get.</p><p>It certainly wasn’t how he anticipated meeting his mother-in-law, at any rate.</p><p>In the console, the rattling vibration of plastic on plastic broke him out of his thoughts. John fished around absently, eyes burning with exhaustion, until he could pull the cell phone out and regard the unregistered number for a moment. It had to be either Jacob or Joseph, given they were the only ones who had access to this phone number, but that thought was oddly uncomfortable.</p><p>He hit the green <em>accept </em>button, clearing his throat. “Hello?”</p><p>
  <em> “John. How are you doing?” </em>
</p><p>It was Joseph’s voice, familiar but altogether strange, too. They hadn’t spoken before he’d left the compound, and Hope County—in part because Joseph had been deep in his singular loneliness, convening with God, and in part because John had not wanted to think about the conversation they would have had regarding bringing Elliot back. There was too much there to unpack, really; Joseph’s dislike (hatred?) of what she had done was abundantly clear, but his elder brother couldn’t find it in himself to deny, either, the importance of returning her back to the fold.</p><p>“I’m alright,” John replied, cautiously. He thought about whether or not to mention Elliot’s sleepwalking, and then decided against it. “How are things at the compound?”</p><p><em> “They’re good.” </em> There was a pause. <em> “You sent Isolde here.” </em></p><p>It was a statement, not a question. John pressed his mouth into a thin line. He wondered if Isolde had been polite—and then reminded himself that it was <em> Isolde, </em>and no amount of bad blood or past history would ever get her to shut up.</p><p>So he said, “She’s the next best thing, after me.”</p><p><em> “I see.” </em> Joseph seemed to want to say something else, his voice lingering absently on the other end of their phone call: but if he was going to say what it was, he didn’t make any move to, and John felt that nervous, anxious energy pushing up high in his throat.</p><p>“It’s important to me,” John managed out after a minute, “that you and the others are well taken care of while I’m here dealing with…”</p><p>
  <em> “Our wayward lamb.” </em>
</p><p>The tightness in Joseph’s voice was not lost on John, and he cleared his throat.</p><p>“Right. But I’m going to be—touching base with her soon, and we’ll be back on the road in no time.”</p><p><em>Touching base </em>didn’t sound quite right. It didn’t feel quite as momentous as it was going to feel, he thought—but <em>making contact </em>also didn’t hit the same. It was going to be near-disastrous, he was sure, no matter how he went about it.</p><p>At first, anyway. And then she would understand, of course, that everything he had done had been for them; everything had been done for <em>her </em>sake, for <em>her </em>future with him, and she would <em>finally, finally </em>be <em> fucking grateful. </em></p><p><em> “See that you do, and are,” </em> Joseph said after a minute. <em> “We need our brother here, John. You, and our sister and nephew.” </em></p><p><em> Our sister, </em>Joseph said. Something about that didn’t feel good at all, John thought, but he swallowed back the uneasy bile in his throat.</p><p>“Of course,” he replied after a moment. “I understand completely.”</p><p>
  <em> “Goodnight, John.” </em>
</p><p>The call clicked off before John could even open his mouth to reply, leaving him with only the dead air and the stifling silence of steady snowfall around him.</p><p>
  <em> Good night indeed. </em>
</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>When Elliot awoke that morning, it was to the sound of conversation downstairs and Boomer’s frantic barking.</p><p>She struggled out of bed, eyes blurry from exhaustion. Her body ached, dull and faintly reminiscent of her late-night jaunt out into the snow; she pushed the door open, only for Boomer to instantly race down the stairs.</p><p>“Elliot,” her mother called, her voice pitching high with frustration, “<em> please </em> come control your beast.”</p><p>Boomer was barking <em>mad. </em> He was barking <em>angry, </em>the kind of vicious alert noise he made when he saw someone he did not like. Elliot barely managed to collect herself to get down the stairs to apologize profusely to whoever it was her hound was currently yelling at when she stopped short at the end of the stairs.</p><p>It was John. John, sitting on her couch. John, coming to a stand when she came down the stairs. John, hair tousled out from its normally perfectly-gelled slick-back style, John in <em>street </em>clothes, <em> John John John </em>existing in her space and breathing her air and flashing her a stupid smile that she wanted to immediately punch in.</p><p>Her brain fizzed and sputtered to a stop. She had thought, should this moment ever come, that she would feel scared. Panicked. But she didn’t feel any of those things. She only felt—</p><p>
  <em> Furious. </em>
</p><p>The kind of strange, quiet fury that arrived like death, sudden and violent and crashing over her in waves until all she could think about was getting her hands around John’s throat.</p><p>She was vividly, ferociously reminded of the drag of John’s finger along her sternum. <em> Yours must surely be the sin of Wrath. </em></p><p>It felt something close to nirvana, though, in a strange, intoxicating way. All this time she had spent being worried that someone was hunting her, someone like Burke—desperate to Do Right by the law—or maybe even the Seeds themselves, because some kind of cosmic force had been on their side for reasons even she couldn’t formulate. But now?</p><p>Now, the man who had been the apex predator, the man who had dragged her through a drug-riddled nightmare, the man who had lied and lied and <em> lied </em> endlessly, ceaselessly, who had</p><p>
  <em> (I love you, Elliot) </em>
</p><p><em> pretended </em>to give a shit about the things that she wanted, was here.</p><p>Within reach.</p><p>It was a different kind of adrenaline rush, one that she hadn’t realized she had missed until her attention had zeroed in directly on John and the imminent threat that he posed. The things he could tell her mother, the things she had worked so hard to keep at bay and far behind her—John was the manifestation of all of those things, and she was <em> fucking mad. </em></p><p>“Elliot,” her mother said, breaking her from the strange, dreamlike haze her fury had plunged her into, “John tells me that he’s your...”</p><p>And then Scarlet’s voice trailed off.</p><p>“What?” Elliot bit out, crushing the bones of the words between her teeth. “<em> John </em> says he’s my <em> what, </em>mother?”</p><p>John exhaled through his mouth. There was an infuriatingly charming smile planted on his face, but if she looked close enough, she could see lines of tension there, too; she wondered if he’d really thought her mother would be a safer bet than <em> her. </em> “Ell,” he began, the nickname grinding Elliot’s good nature to a halt, “I think it’s <em> important </em> that we—”</p><p>But before he could finish his thought, Elliot interjected, “Shut. The. Fuck. <em> Up. </em>”</p><p>Boomer’s barking had dwindled into low, threatening growls, his hackles fully raised like little pin needles along his spine. He was laser-focused on John, with one ear cocked in her direction, <em> waiting. </em>On the couch, John shifted uncomfortably.</p><p>“Bunny,” her mother said, her voice tight and her mouth set in a prim line at the expletive she’d just barked out, “tell the hound to be quiet.”</p><p>“Sit,” Elliot ordered, which did not equate to quiet, but which Boomer obeyed anyway. She thought maybe she would have been more stressed about it if she were not fully confident in her ability to heel him, should the need arise.</p><p>“I only wanted,” John tried again, raising his hands like he was trying not to spook a wild bronco, “for us to have a moment—”</p><p>“It’s nice to <em>want </em>things,” she bit out viciously. “There are a lot of things <em> I </em>want, too.”</p><p>Her mother came to a stand, clearing her throat and instantly drawing their eyes.</p><p>“Mr. Seed,” Scarlet said, her voice mild, “please take a seat. You’re raising my blood pressure, looming in my vision like that.”</p><p>John took in a breath and then re-seated himself, planting a smile on his face. “John is fine, Mrs. Honeysett.”</p><p>Her mother gave him a scathing once-over before she said, very pointedly, “Mr. Seed tells me he is your <em> husband.” </em></p><p>It might as well have been a slap to the face. Elliot was viciously reminded of their last interaction—the threat of murder, the oh-so-satisfying sting of her palm connecting with his face. The last well-and-true violation John had committed against their wobbly, new-born trust.</p><p>Her stomach lurched. The kind of nausea that came with rage welled up inside of her, and she blinked furiously, wishing for once that the adrenaline did not make her so very focused and hyper-aware and instead that she could actively choose to check-out of reality.</p><p>“He’s a fucking liar,” was what ended up coming out of her mouth, because it wasn’t incriminating either way. John Seed <em>was </em>a liar. A deceiver. And while they <em>might </em>—maybe, tenuously, questionably—be married in the eyes of the law (something which Elliot could, unfortunately, not prove one way or the other), that didn’t mean fuck all.</p><p>“At the very least, you won’t be having a baby out of wedlock,” her mother continued, her voice tight with some unreadable emotion that implied she was not pleased by this development at all. She was eyeing Elliot, studying her, and for once a scolding for her poor language did not ensue. “I imagine you’ll want a moment to discuss in private what our next steps are.”</p><p><em> There are no next steps, </em> Elliot thought viciously, loosening the vice-clench of her hands and feeling the blood come rushing, stinging back into her palms. She watched the corner of John’s mouth tick upward, amused; infuriatingly handsome, per usual, so much so that she wanted to just punch his fucking teeth in. <em> There are no next steps for John Seed, not with me. </em></p><p>“Yeah,” she said finally, eyes narrowing, gritting the words out between her teeth. “I would <em> love </em> to have a moment alone with John.”</p><p>The casual smile on John’s face downturned, just a little. It was the kind of uneasy expression that came with getting what he wanted so easily, <em> too </em>easily, that he didn’t know if it was really what he wanted anymore. Good. She wanted him to squirm.</p><p>“I’ll be upstairs,” Scarlet replied, sweeping past her. “And you just call if you need me, bunny.”</p><p>Elliot made a small noise of agreement. The tense, drawn line of her mother’s shoulders implied a distinct dislike, and she could already feel the judgments welling up—things that John would certainly deserve. Things that her mother would wait to slip into idle, polite conversation, if it ever got to that point. Which she would do her fucking damnedest to make sure that it didn’t.</p><p>As soon as her mother had drifted wraithlike up the stairs, a moment of silence stretched between them. John came to a stand, keeping his hands up and in plain view as he took a few steps forward, inspiring in Boomer a few short, vicious barks that reminded him their friendship had been temporary and fleeting.</p><p>“Ell,” John began, “I know that you’re—”</p><p>“Don’t fucking call me that.”</p><p>He exhaled, once, out of his nose. “<em> Elliot,” </em> he tried again, “a lot of things were said—”</p><p>Elliot felt the anger spike in her violently. “Oh, <em> were there?” </em></p><p>“My God, are you going to let me finish a sentence?”</p><p>“I should rip your fucking tongue out of your mouth, you lying <em>rat,” </em> Elliot snapped viciously. “What are you doing here? <em> Why </em>are you here? How did you fucking—how are the police not—the <em> government </em>—”</p><p>John flashed her a half-cocked smile that she was sure had inspired homicidal tendencies before, and would do so again. “Are you really that surprised they weren’t able to keep us?”</p><p>“This is not the <em> fucking time,” </em> she hissed, pitching her voice low, “to be playing <em> games </em>with me, John Seed.”</p><p>“No game,” he promised as he mimicked her volume. “We found a way out. I’m presuming, not unlike the same strategy with which <em> you </em> found a way out, isn’t that right?”</p><p>She felt her teeth clench. <em> Of course he fucking knows, </em> something inside of her whispered viciously. <em> Of course he knows, he’s not stupid about things like that. Just everything else. </em></p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally. “You have no way of knowing that Burke didn’t send me off to a therapist and let me go.”</p><p>“Sure, Elliot,” John murmured, his voice slick, “Cameron Burke, U.S. Federal Marshal, shipped you off to a therapist who found out you were <em>perfectly </em>well-adjusted after caving a man’s face in with a blunt object and now you’re here, living in bumfuck nowhere Georgia. How’s mama Honeysett feel about that, anyway?” He tilted his chin, eyes sly. “About all the <em> killing—” </em></p><p>She swung without thinking. It was a knee-jerk reaction, no thought and no pre-meditation, only pure and unadulterated gut-instinct to impact her fist with his face. Unfortunately, John seemed to have been prepared for it, and stepped back just in time, catching her wrist.</p><p>“I’m a quick study,” John murmured, his voice pitching low into a threat, “and I’m not interested in losing any teeth.”</p><p>“Brave of you to put your hand so close to my face,” Elliot snapped in a hiss. She jerked her wrist out of his grip like it had burned her, and it might as well have—the contact of skin, not unlike the ways John had touched and grabbed her before, when he’d had a right to.</p><p>Regarding her warily, he dropped his hand to his side. “You ran away with our baby.”</p><p>“I would hardly call leaving you to your own devices as I made a leisurely departure with government officials ‘running away’.”</p><p>“You ran away with our baby,” he repeated, cocking his head to the side. “I think the exact words were <em> ‘you should have considered that before you fucking came inside me, you cunt’.” </em></p><p>Elliot’s mouth twisted. She was trying not to smile, because despite the absolute <em>absurdity </em>of the situation—the punch of those words still felt satisfying, in a strange, twisted way. Even though it was for that exact reason that she found herself in this situation now: pregnant, and struggling to feel like she was really that, like she was anything more than a temporary vessel for the baby who didn’t quite feel real to her yet.</p><p>John’s eyes flickered. “Find that amusing?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she replied sharply, “I think it’s some of my best work. Short of slapping you in the face. I do wish I’d made it a closed-fist punch, if I’m being honest.”</p><p>He seemed pleased at that, as though the reminder of her Wrath was a comforting familiarity, and she wished she hadn’t fallen so easily back into their old cadence. Steeling herself, she said, “You need to leave.”</p><p>“I think I’m exactly where I <em> need </em>to be,” John assured her. “With my unborn child, and my <em> wife </em>—”</p><p>“Don’t you fucking—”</p><p>“—and my mother-in-law,” he finished demurely, “who surely knows everything about what we’ve been up to these last few weeks. Doesn’t she?”</p><p>Elliot stared at him. <em> No </em>was the correct and truthful answer. No, her mother did not know what had been happening these last few weeks, was blissfully unaware of the extent of Eden’s Gate and their evil as well as the things that Elliot herself had done. If her mother had known what she’d done—if her mother had known the things <em> John </em>had done—she would have been horrified. Disgusted. Repulsed.</p><p><em> I’m </em> <b> <em>it</em> </b> <em> for you, </em>John had said, and</p><p>
  <em> (maybe that was true, maybe he was the only person who would ever be able to get her, accept her, love her) </em>
</p><p>fuck him for saying so.</p><p>“The irony of <em>you </em>threatening me with pure honesty isn’t lost on me. And I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish,” Elliot said sourly, after a moment. “Blackmail isn’t <em> exactly </em>the way to a girl’s heart, and certainly doesn’t convince me of your qualifications as a father.”</p><p>“Desperate times,” John allowed, tilting his chin up playfully, “desperate measures. And it isn’t blackmailing, per se. You could have just as easily told your mother everything that had happened and I’d have nothing working in my favor.”</p><p>But of course, he had known her better than that. John had seen the way killing Kian had affected her, the way it affected her when she was faced with the mountain of bodies she had left behind her, the shame and disconcertion at finding something wretched and wrathful inside of herself and <em>liking </em>it.</p><p>So he hadn’t gambled at all, really, and she supposed that she wasn’t that surprised.</p><p>He paused, studying her for a moment, before he added, “Not to mention, you <em> are </em> carrying my baby.”</p><p><b> <em>My </em></b><em>baby, </em> something hissed inside of Elliot, wretched and protective, something that had otherwise been dormant inside of her up until now; <em> not your baby, </em> <b> <em>my</em> </b><em>baby. </em></p><p>“All I want,” he continued as he kept his voice low, sauntering closer, trying to do that thing that he <em> did </em> where he crowded up against her and made her brain go fuzzy, “is a <em> chance.” </em></p><p>“Fuck you,” Elliot snapped. “I should have throttled you the second you walked through my fucking door.”</p><p>“But you didn’t,” he pointed out. The arrogance bled through and into his voice, bright and sharp. “And you haven’t. And that’s because you <em> lo—” </em></p><p>This time, Elliot’s swing wasn’t anticipated at all, and she landed a sharp, open-palm slap to the side of John’s face. He reached up, working his jaw, his eyes narrowed as that tell-tale anger colored his expression. <em> Good, </em> she thought venomously, watching the red bloom just under his skin, <em> good, I hope it fucking hurts, you stupid fucker. </em></p><p>“Next time you presume to tell me how I feel about you,” she warned, “it <em>will </em>be closed-fist. And I won’t fucking miss.”</p><p>John’s eyes flashed with something dangerous and angry. But he said, “I’m glad I didn’t <em>break </em>that wrathful streak out of you,” with no absence of affection-tipped venom.</p><p>“Elliot?”</p><p>It was Scarlet’s voice, drifting down from the stairs. Elliot gave John one hard, vicious look before she turned to see her mother standing at the landing where the two stairways converged at the top of the main staircase, regarding them with a critical eye.</p><p>“Have you sorted it all out?” she asked after a moment. “All of this…business?”</p><p>“I’m going to be in town for a while longer,” John said, before Elliot could formulate a response, inspiring in her yet another bout of homicidal rage that she had to quickly reel in. “I’m determined to make this work, no matter how long it takes.” And then, in what he surely thought was a very charming gesture: “I’m very pleased to get to know my mother-in-law a little better, as well.”</p><p>“Ah,” Scarlet replied. She then refused to elaborate. </p><p>“I hope,” John continued after a moment, “that’s alright with you, Mrs. Honeysett.”</p><p>Her brow arched upward, looking between Elliot and John expectantly, making it clear that was all she had to say on <em>that. </em> It was satisfying, to watch her mother operate as she always did without even knowing the true nature of John Seed. It was the least he deserved.</p><p>“I really think you should just go,” Elliot said tightly as she turned her attention to him. “Back to Hope County, I mean. Your brothers probably need your help.”</p><p>“They’re fine,” John said, feigning sweetness despite the red sting of her slap still fresh on his skin and her mother's very apparent disdain, “and <em> nothing </em> is more important to me than you and the baby, Elliot.”</p><p>Saccharine and venomous. <em> Fuck, I hate him. </em></p><p>“I’ll get a room in the motel here,” he continued, brightly. “That way we’ll have plenty of time to spend together. Catch up. Has Elliot told you much about Hope County these last few weeks, Mrs. Honeysett?”</p><p><em> "Fine," </em> Elliot bit out, just as her mother cut in, <em> "That </em>won't do at all," and they looked at each other with the same amount of wounded incredulity.</p><p>"He'll stay with us." Her mother's voice was decisive. "Not in that run-down motel."</p><p><em> "Mother," </em>Elliot bit out.</p><p>"I won't have a man traipsing in and out of my house at all hours of the night, living like some vagabond," Scarlet asserted. <em> "Especially </em>not the father of my grandchild. And you certainly don’t expect me to explain that to people."</p><p>Elliot could feel the headache blistering behind her eyes. She didn't even need to look at John to know he was grinning, ear to ear, like a fucking Cheshire Cat. It was the blatant and unimpressive downside to her mother remaining completely in the dark about what had happened in Hope County—and if John had thought he had leverage over her before, he <em>certainly </em>thought so now. There was no way Scarlet would have insisted he stay if she <em>really knew. </em></p><p>This was bad. Devastatingly, infuriatingly, chop-her-hair-off-and-run-away bad. The kind of bad that only happened in horror comedies. Suddenly, she thought that dyeing her hair had been the most reasonable thing to do, and that her margin for acting out had increased exponentially.</p><p>"That's so kind of you," John said pleasantly from behind her. "Thank you."</p><p>"It is kind of me," was her mother's clipped agreement. "Make sure you move your…" Scarlet gestured vaguely with one elegant hand. "Vehicle <em>behind </em>the garage, Mr. Seed. I do not need my driveway looking like a scrapyard." Her head tilted, eyes narrowed. "Bunny, help me prepare the guest room."</p><p>She resisted the urge to sigh, knowing that if there was one thing her mother would not tolerate, it was an insolent child. “I’ll be there in a minute.”</p><p>Her mother gave the two of them one more leisurely, scathing sweep-over with her eyes, making a noise that bordered skillfully between discontent and acquiescence before she departed up the stairs to leave them alone once again.</p><p>“Do we really need separate rooms?” John mused, as though he had not hunted her down five states away and showed up unannounced at her home after systematically lying to her. “I mean—you <em> are </em> carrying my child.”</p><p>There it was, that little spark again, pure defiance: <b> <em>my </em></b><em>baby, I’m carrying them, you’ve done nothing, </em>like all of a sudden this baby had become more hers than it had ever felt before the second John tried to stake his claim on it. “I’m going to punch your fucking teeth in,” she hissed, “if you don’t get the fuck out of swinging range.”</p><p>“I did <em> so </em> miss our rapport.”</p><p>“Final warning.”</p><p>He flashed her a grin that was all teeth, and she regretted, in fact, having given him a warning at all; it seemed that even though their time together had been short, old habits did die hard.</p><p>The brunette swung around on his heel, pulling the keys out of his pocket and sauntering toward the door. He truly did embody the cat that had caught the canary, more so than Elliot would have liked to admit, turning to look at her through playfully narrowed eyes. “In case you were wondering—”</p><p>“I’m not.”</p><p>“I like the red,” he finished, voice bleeding with self-satisfaction, <em> “bunny.” </em></p><p>It was good, for his sake, that he had waited until he was out of reach to say so.</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>“<em> That </em> one, Elliot?”</p><p>“Mama,” she gritted out, her fingers digging viciously into the fabric of the sheets, “please, I do <em> not </em> want to have this conversation.”</p><p>“I just think,” her mother amended curtly as she passed a scathing look over the brunette Elliot was currently considering shoving through the stained glass of the front door, “you could have at <em> least </em> picked the tall one.”</p><p>Elliot stared at her mother from across the king-sized guest bed, blinking rapidly. “You mean...Jacob?” <em> Ugh, </em> she thought, remembering the way John’s eldest brother had grinned at her when she’d threatened to kill him and said, <em> yeah, you think you can, little girl? </em> Fucker.</p><p>“Is that the redhead?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Scarlet nodded sagely. “You have to be mindful of who you pick to build a life with,” her mother intoned dutifully. “Genes, and the like. Both your daddy and I are tall, and you’re so short, honey. You want to set the baby up for success, don’t you?”</p><p>“I’m not—” Absurd. Absolutely <em>absurd, </em>this conversation she was having, not only that her mother thought she would just have her fucking pick of Seed brothers to be impregnated by, let alone that she would <em>ever</em> <em>fucking want </em>Jacob Seed that close to her. “I’m not discussing whether or not I’d let Jacob Seed into my bed, mother.”</p><p>“Well,” Scarlet replied primly, smoothing out the comforter meticulously with her hand, “John’s quite...alternative, anyway. I just never knew you liked...” Her voice trailed off again, and she gestured vaguely.</p><p>Elliot arched a brow at her. “Liked?”</p><p><em> “That,” </em> her mother finished after a moment, and then sighed, like it had been excruciating for her to say so. It wasn’t as though they’d had many heart-to-hearts about what kind of <em>boy </em> Elliot liked, anyway. “You know, the—tattoos. And whatnot.”</p><p>“They don’t bother me one way or another, mama.”</p><p>“I find your taste in men quite eclectic. What happened to that nice young man you went to high school with? And all of those school dances? He was nice. Didn’t you two work together at the sheriff’s office?”</p><p>The last person that Elliot wanted to discuss in terms of a romantic relationship was the <em>one </em>man she’d dated in high school. Staci Pratt had been evacuated with the others, and was hopefully living his life with a steadfast therapist somewhere far from Hope County, just like the rest of the Resistance. She cleared her throat.</p><p>“I’m not having a baby with Staci Pratt.”</p><p>“I know <em> that.” </em></p><p>“Can we <em>please,” </em> she started, “can we <em>please </em>stop talking about this? I really don’t even want John staying here, but you insisted, and—”</p><p>Scarlet crossed her arms over her chest, frowning. “Well, why not? Don’t you like him? Enough to marry him and have a baby with him, anyway.”</p><p><em> I don’t, </em> that vicious little voice inside of Elliot hissed, <em> I didn’t say yes, I didn’t want to marry him, I don’t think I even want to marry anyone, stop talking about it, please. </em></p><p>It made her sick to her stomach, to think about John being her <em>husband, </em> to think about the fact that she was having <em>his baby, </em>and maybe that was why she hadn’t been able to feel quite so much like herself as of late; maybe that was why she had been feeling so disconnected from the baby, because she hadn’t quite reconciled how they had come to be in the first place.</p><p>She hadn’t reconciled that she had been so, so, incredibly, <em>wretchedly</em> <em>stupid.</em></p><p>“Is there something you aren’t telling me?” Scarlet asked after a moment, watching her from across the bed, her mouth turning into a firmer, more deep-set frown. “You seemed awfully unhappy to have him here.”</p><p>“We didn’t leave on good terms,” Elliot muttered, clearing her throat and busying herself with pulling pillowcases onto the pillows. Fuck, she couldn’t <em>believe </em>she was doing this. Making up a <em> bed </em>in her <em>guest room </em>for <em> John fucking Seed. </em></p><p>Her mother moved around to the foot of the bed, stepping carefully over Boomer so as not to disturb him where he lay. She paused at the door, just long enough without saying anything to draw Elliot’s attention back to her, before she exhaled softly.</p><p>“It’s Christmas next week,” her mother said after moment, completely ruining the illusion she’d had of her mother actually asking her something meaningful. “The perfect time to practice patience.”</p><p>Elliot felt her mouth twist viciously, turning away and dropping the pillows on the bed so that her mother wouldn’t see. The last thing she needed to give John Seed was <em>patience. </em> Least of all Christmas-spirit-induced <em>patience. </em> He deserved far, far less, and much worse, than that.</p><p>“Don’t forget about your doctor’s appointment,” her mother called as she departed the room, “and hurry down to eat something before you run your beast.”</p><p>It was better this way, anyway. To have John here. If he wasn’t in the custody of Federal agents, the next best place he could be was where she could see him—keep tabs on him, keep aware of what kinds of shit he was up to. And maybe he’d get so tired with her mother’s particular brand of vitriol that he’d fucking <em> leave. </em></p><p>
  <em> I should be so lucky. </em>
</p><p>━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p><em> “What </em> is <em> this?” </em></p><p>Kajsa’s voice broke her out of her reverie. She had been watching the snowfall, flecking against the window in crystalline geometrics, methodical and variable all at the same time—but the surprise peaking in her harbinger’s voice was enough to draw her eyes away.</p><p>The heater in the car rattled, straining against the cold temperatures. Kajsa’s dark eyes had narrowed, and when Helmi followed her gaze, it was to the front of the mother’s house. Their little interloper was heading up the front steps, having apparently come from behind the two-story shop and garage to head back inside.</p><p>And then he let himself in.</p><p>“He is moving quickly, this little snake of ours,” Kajsa murmured, her voice flecked with amusement. “I thought he’d be exercising more caution.”</p><p>Helmi made a low noise. This was...displeasing, to say the least. They had been counting on John’s interference being minimal, given that he was away from home and all of his little pets. Apparently, it had only made him <em>more </em>bold.</p><p>And that just wouldn’t do at all.</p><p>“You will go back,” the black-haired woman beside her announced, decisively.</p><p>“What?” Helmi asked, brows furrowing together at the center of her forehead. “Back to Hope County? But—I should be here, with you. My place is—I belong with <em>you</em>. What about...”</p><p>Kajsa leaned back against her seat, her eyes never once having left the house. As Helmi’s voice trailed off, unused to presenting distress or dislike of a decision made by her superior, the woman’s jaw worked absently, the brush of her dark, sooty lashes caressing the top of her cheekbones. Singularly devastating and beautiful, as always, though in moments like this Helmi wished it weren’t so distracting.</p><p>“I can open our mother to the influence on my own,” she said at last, and <em>finally </em> turned her slate-gray gaze to Helmi. “I want you to return to our family back in Montana. Do whatever you would like, but make sure you are making them <em>sweat. </em>”</p><p>She turned in her seat now, so that they were facing each other, taking Hel’s face in her hands. The pads of Kajsa’s thumbs swept across her cheeks, affectionate.</p><p>“Strangle them,” Kajsa murmured. “I want you to be my tourniquet. Stop the bleeding where you can. Tighten so ferociously around those apostates that John Seed will have no choice but to abandon our mother and leave her to me.”</p><p><em> I don’t want to leave, </em> Helmi thought, watching the woman’s dark eyes—so dark, <em> so dark, </em> faded and distant while her pupils ate away at her irises. <em> I don’t want to leave you. </em></p><p>“It is best.” Her voice pitched, soft and low, almost lulling. “For the end. For our winter, Helmi. I do not want you to go, and I will grieve, just like you will.” She tilted her head, drawing Helmi’s eyes to the wisps of dark hair spilling like black moonlight against the porcelain of her throat. “And what do we say to our grief?”</p><p>“Sorrow shared,” Helmi whispered, “sorrow halved.”</p><p>“That is exactly right.” Kajsa leaned back, the curve of her dark mouth, feline and sharp, wrenching right on Helmi’s resolve. “You will go for me, won’t you?”</p><p><em> I don’t want to, </em> she thought again, the idea of leaving Kajsa alone to sit in the dark, to peel apart the mother’s layers one by one, unthread her, a distressing one. They had never been so far apart. <em> I don’t want to be away from you. </em></p><p>“Helmi.”</p><p>“I will,” she managed out at last. “For you.” <em> I would do anything, for you. </em></p><p>Kajsa’s smile widened, razor-sharp.</p><p>“And that is why," the woman murmured, "you are perfect to me."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. dark vibrations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"The woods are lovely,<br/>dark and deep.<br/>But I have promises to keep,<br/>and miles to go<br/>before I sleep."<br/>— Robert Frost</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>howdy! i hope y’all enjoy this. sometimes i go weeks without updating and sometimes i wait like, 4 days before manically writing an entire chapter. you know how it be like that sometimes. i was feeling a bit more inspired and felt like i finally hit a groove on where this story was going, which i think definitely helped, and i hope you all enjoy it!</p><p>thank you, as always, to everyone who reads, likes/comments, even if you just come into my dms with two nice words or write something nice in your tags; it really does make my whole night to see even one person enjoying anything i’ve made. &lt;3</p><p>warnings: body horror, hallucinations (?), mentions of self-harm, mentions of suicide. spooky scary activities ensue. elliot has an increasingly difficult time keeping a grasp on reality. we knew this was gonna happen, though!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cold morning light filtered in through the window, drenched in wedding-silk grays thanks to the wintery cloud-cover. Everything in the room looked to be placed with absolute intent and care; polished, porcelain-white decor in elaborate geometrics, gold accents, a king-sized bed with impeccably pressed sheets. Truthfully, John had thought for certain he’d come back into the house to be informed by Elliot’s statuesque mother that, in fact, she had rescinded her offer to let him stay and actually, he would need to depart immediately, lest the authorities be called.</p><p>He was glad that it hadn’t come to that, of course, because it would’ve been such a shame to have to dampen Scarlet’s opinion of her own daughter so quickly into their meeting.</p><p>Dropping his small bag of belongings—the manila folder packed full of information, including his own scribbled notes; the burner phone; a few quickly-packed clothes that had been meticulously cycled to avoid the most long-term wear—John paused as the heat in the house kicked on with a delicate <em>whirr.</em></p><p>Everything in Scarlet Honeysett’s home seemed to be precisely the shape and color that she liked, with not a single thing out of place; and yet, as the heat kicked on, he was <em>certain</em> that he could hear the sound of sharp, hushed voices downstairs, a little ripple in the woman’s perfect, arcadian home scene.</p><p>It was good. It felt good, to be here. To have gotten the upper hand. So much of the past weeks he’d spent with Elliot had felt like he was slowly, violently spiraling out of control, but <em>this?</em> She was <em>here, </em>and she had to play by his rules <em>for once</em>, and—</p><p>And he’d wanted just one more second alone, with her. To watch the way her eyes flickered over his face, to drink in the way her chin tilted up in defiance but not <em>unlike </em>the way she used to do it when she was waiting for him to kiss her, the same lovely high-color in her spreading along her cheekbones and the same little spark in her gaze. Whether it was anger or allure was neither here nor there, anymore; with Elliot, they were interchangeable, a stepping stone one way or another, just the way it had always been with them.</p><p>Because John liked her anger. He liked her wrath. He wanted to put his hands on it, his mouth on it, break it into pieces and wring it out of her and put it back and do it all over again, while she said his name, <em>his</em> name, and not anyone else’s. God, she’d been so fucking close—so close, and he couldn have just <em>had her</em> if he really wanted to, grabbed a fistful of her hair and kissed her when the sting of her slap was still fresh on his face. She liked when he did that; kissed her, like he was starved for her. <em>Because </em>he was starved for her, and then she could knot her fingers into his shirt or dig her nails into his skin or whatever it was she wanted to make him <em>desperate.</em></p><p>The sound of excited barking downstairs broke him out of his thoughts. John blinked, taking one last swift look-over of the immaculate room his mother-in-law had decided to put him up in before he nudged his bag beneath the bed and stepped out into the hallway.</p><p>To say <em>old money</em> would be almost an understatement. Surely, this house had to have some kind of historical significance; it was several stories, with one of those grand staircases that was wide going up, hit a landing, and then split to either side of the house. As he made his way down, he caught sight of the flicker of Scarlet’s silk robe in the kitchen; music drifted out of it, the same kind of hazy, older music that Elliot had turned on in her mother’s house back in Hope County.</p><p>“Stop moving,” Elliot was saying to Boomer, strapping him into a little reflective vest that sat on him like a saddle blanket. For a second, she didn’t notice his presence—or willfully ignored it; he couldn’t say for sure one way or another—and instead focused on the Heeler, rubbing his ears and kissing the bridge of his nose. A tiny little smile ticked the corners of her mouth, and he thought he heard her say, <em>so handsome, best boy, yes you are.</em></p><p>Boomer’s attention snapped to John, now at the foot of the stairs. He let out one sharp, accusatory bark <em>(could dogs sound accusatory,</em> John wondered, <em>or was that just Elliot getting to him?)</em>, and what little of his hackles were visible from out under the vest spiked up instantly.</p><p>“Good to see you too, beastie,” John greeted him, trying to ignore the way the hound’s low-pitched, reverberating growls made his skin crawl. Flashes of Boomer’s numerous and vicious takedowns of not only Eden’s Gate members but at least one member of the Family that had the misfortune of having chained the dog up darted across his memory, like a flipping through a photo album.</p><p>“Don’t talk to him,” Elliot snipped, cupping Boomer’s ears protectively. “I don’t need him getting the idea we’re friendly.”</p><p>John rolled his eyes. “More than <em>friendly, </em>I’d say.” His eyes darted over her, drinking in once against the shock of her appearance—<em>red</em> hair, so fucking red that every time he looked at her it was almost like staring at a stranger until he took in the rest, the freckles smattering her nose and the flush in her cheeks, cupid’s-bow lips that were <em>glossed.</em> Had he ever seen Elliot with more than river-soaked mascara on before?</p><p>The woman shot him a look, dry and unamused, coming to a stand. He asked, “Going for a walk?”</p><p>“Trying to,” she replied tartly, “but <em>someone </em>is evil enough that Boomer doesn’t trust them.”</p><p>“We’re pals,” John offered pleasantly. “Me and the beast. You know, were, anyway. He probably just needs to spend a little time with me.”</p><p>“Speaking from personal experience, more time makes you less palatable.”</p><p>“Let me come on the walk with you,” he tried again, letting her little barbs and jabs roll right off of him, water skating off of his feathers. At this point, he really quite <em>enjoyed</em> her venom; it was familiar. “I’m sure we’ve got plenty to catch up on.”</p><p>Elliot eyed him warily, eyes giving him a scathing once-over—eerily reminiscent of her mother’s own disdainful look, and now he thought, <em>ah, yeah, that is where she gets it from, then</em>—as her mouth twisted around whatever it was she wanted to say but wouldn’t let herself. Something too vicious for Scarlet to overhear, perhaps. The threats she’d made in the past had been wildly colorful, but each second that Ell spent considering her words more carefully rather than saying whatever it was she felt with her eyes darting to the kitchen was another second that John became more aware of how <em>little</em> Scarlet actually knew.</p><p>“Fine,” Elliot said at last, her eyes narrowing. “I suppose that we do. Mama, we’re leavin’.”</p><p>The little quirk of an accent at the end of her sentence made him swallow back a laugh. He’d barely heard that Georgia accent back in Hope County, but maybe spending time with her mother had reinspired it.</p><p>“Alright,” Scarlet said, drying her hands on a towel as she stood in the doorway. Her eyes glanced between them, inquisitive for a moment, before she said, “Be quick. Doctor’s appointment in an hour and a half.”</p><p>John tilted his head. “Oh? Baby check-in?”</p><p>“Can’t imagine what else it would be, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet idled. “Are you familiar with the process of pregnancy?”</p><p>“Not beyond the knowledge of a man, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Well, allow me to educate you,” the blonde said, her voice light. “When a woman is carrying a baby, she has to make frequent visits to the doctor, to ensure that all is well. Can’t have anything going wrong with the baby, you know.”</p><p>John steadied the intake of breath so that it did not sound so abrupt. He would have done a double-take and thought perhaps she was just overbearing, and not attempting to <em>insult </em>him, were Elliot not smiling. Certainly, only her mother’s attempted insult of him could elicit such an expression out of her.</p><p>“Then my arrival was fortunately timed,” he announced. “I look forward to it.”</p><p>“And you’ll be sorely disappointed,” Elliot cut in, her humor fading. “You won’t be coming.”</p><p><em>Ah, yes. That’s why I don’t love her attitude. </em>“That’s absurd,” he replied, incredulous. “It’s nearly six weeks, and I haven’t seen a single ultrasound of our baby.”</p><p>He was careful, this time, to keep it to <em>our baby. </em>He’d seen the way Elliot’s expression tightened when he’d said <em>my baby, </em>even though that’s what came so naturally to him now, being that they were hardly on the same team—but he’d <em>seen </em>it, that look in her eye, the way she’d squared her shoulders like she’d suddenly been ready to go at him.</p><p><em>Only one thing to do with a rabid dog,</em> Jacob had said, not two days before they found Elliot drenched in another man’s blood in the woods.</p><p>John half-expected Scarlet to jump in, to say that it was the father’s right to be there; she was more traditional than Elliot, if her comment about wedlock or her insistence of him staying were anything to go by, but when he turned his gaze to her, the older woman’s expression was devoid of any sympathy. Typical of Honeysett women, he was coming to find.</p><p>“If she doesn’t want you there, then you won’t be there. I won’t have my daughter stressed out,” Scarlet told him. “Stress is bad for the baby. Surely that falls within the realm of what a man knows about babies, Mr. Seed?”</p><p>He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Surely.”</p><p>“Good. Hour and a half, my beloved, do <em>not</em> be late.”</p><p>That a woman had become so capable of tacking the softness of <em>my beloved</em> onto something that verged on a threat was nearly beyond John—would have been, certainly, were he not accustomed to Isolde’s particular brand of venom that was not so unlike Scarlet Honeysett’s.</p><p>“I won’t,” Elliot promised. “Can you call the handyman? My TV’s been acting up lately. Turning on static and whatnot.”</p><p>“Fine,” Scarlet replied, waving her hand. “I’ll have them come out this afternoon.”</p><p>Elliot turned on her heel and opened the front door out into the frigid morning, letting Boomer dart out ahead of her and not waiting for him in the least. He fell into step beside her easily, shrugging into his coat halfway out the door as it clicked shut behind him; she trudged through the snow, passing the garbage can and opening the gate that led out into what had once been pastureland and towards the woods.</p><p>It was the same fence that she’d been standing at, early that morning, face lax and serene. If the return to the fence bothered her at all, it didn’t show on her face any more than her irritation at having him there.</p><p>“Your mother’s quite...” John’s voice trailed off. “Tall.”</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>“Statuesque, even.”</p><p>“Mm<em>hm.”</em></p><p>“I get the feeling she doesn’t like me that much.”</p><p>“Yes,” Elliot acquiesced, her tone dripping with something close to venomous amusement, “I’ve never seen her take so poorly to someone so quickly before.”</p><p>“I suppose I should be flattered.”</p><p>“You <em>would</em> be.”</p><p>A fourth of the way into the snowy pasture and Boomer was far ahead of them, leaping like a little speckled gazelle in drifts of snow. It was easy to forget that the dog had been ready to rip him to shreds just a little under an hour ago (and once more, more recently). Still, as they trudged through a path that it seemed Elliot had worn through a few times before, John let out a little puff of breath and glanced over at her.</p><p>For just one second, she wasn’t spitting any venom at him, but rather seemed to favor the act of pretending like he wasn’t <em>there, </em>which was a bit worse than having her fix her fury on him. Her gaze was focused forward, following Boomer’s little lines in the snow. Attention at all was one thing, but acting as though he didn’t <em>exist?</em></p><p>John said, “So, Burke just got his autopsy reports back and dropped you off right here at home, huh?”</p><p>Elliot’s face had already gone pink from the cold, right on her nose and spreading through her cheeks. At his words, a new flush of color rose, a shade more vicious than the last, and her gaze slid to him. <em>If looks could kill,</em> he thought, that dreamy little spike of delight at her eyes on him going straight to his head. <em>Look at you, my little Wrath. You’ve got the good girl mask on, but I know what your true face is.</em></p><p>He’d seen it. Kissed her when the blood was still in her mouth. Let her feed the monster inside of her when she told him to beg, when she dug her nails into his skin, when her breath hitched in her chest from the pressure of his knife blade against her sternum—not in pain, necessarily, but delight <em>at</em> that pain.</p><p>The scar had to still be there, of course. The reminder of its existence, swathed in the heavy winter fabrics she wore now, made his fingers itch. If he could just get his hands on her—get his <em>mouth</em> on her, if she would <em>just stop being so obtuse—</em>but he didn’t think he’d be so fond of her if she wasn’t.</p><p>“The same way the government probably drove you and your siblings back to the compound and dropped you off,” she replied at last, her voice tight, “isn’t that right?”</p><p>John flashed his teeth at her in a grin. “<em>Very</em> astute, hellcat.”</p><p>Her expression tightened at the moniker. She sucked her teeth, fixing her eyes forward again, shifting back into the strategy of being <em>withholding </em>of her attention rather than entertain him.</p><p>“Oh, come on,” he said, swinging around in front of her and stopping her single-minded journey across the pastureland. “You can’t say you didn’t miss me even a <em>little </em>bit, Ell.”</p><p>“I told you,” she replied tartly, “not to call me that.”</p><p>“Because it reminds you of what it was like when we’re together,” he agreed.</p><p>An exasperated noise came out of her. “Did you forget that I lied to you?”</p><p>“At the end, sure,” John said, eyes flickering over her face. “But I don’t think you’re so good a liar you could lie about all of the times you said <em>please, </em>or the <em>way </em>that you said my name, or—and I think you’ll recall I’ve insisted on <em>this</em> bit from the beginning—the undeniable connection that we’ve had since we met.”</p><p>“You are a fucking <em>lunatic,” </em>Elliot snapped, her face flushing red. “And don’t fucking talk about me like I’m—like I wasn’t <em>there, </em>I know what I—” She sucked in a sharp breath; lower, and more threatening, “I’m <em>aware</em> of what I said. Of what I did.”</p><p>“And you’re going to tell me that it was all fake?” he prompted, unwilling to let go of this little thread. Gripping, sliding through his fingers, but he wouldn’t be so quick to let it escape him <em>now</em> that he didn’t have to think about her mother pitching in an unwanted opinion. “That you lied the whole time and you don’t feel anything for me, that—”</p><p>“Of course it wasn’t <em>fake,” </em>she bit out. Her voice had gone venomous, sharp, unbridled in its timbre. “I’m not a fucking <em>psychopath</em>, John, I can’t fake loving someone like you can.”</p><p>John opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. He hadn’t been expecting <em>that. </em>Sure, there was a part of him that was sure Elliot had her doubts about his intentions, otherwise she wouldn’t have fucked off to the middle of nowhere (nor turned them in), but—still?</p><p>“You think I—” He paused again, blinking. “You’re not <em>that</em> stupid.”</p><p>Her eyes narrowed. Everything about her stiffened, quite suddenly, like maybe she was bracing to take another swing at him. “You are fucking <em>begging</em> for a punch to the face.”</p><p>“I mean,” John began quickly, waving his hands a little, “that you surely don’t think that whole time I was just—”</p><p>Elliot made a disgusted sound and brushed past him, letting out a high whistle; the sound immediately drew a flurry of activity as a flock of birds when bursting from the treeline, followed closely behind by Boomer’s gray-and-black speckled form. John fell back into step with her, huffing out a breath of air. He was going to table that discussion for later—she was <em>clearly</em> still upset, still a little sore and tender from their departure, and that was fine. There were a lot of things at play concerning his wife’s mood, including but not limited to being pregnant.</p><p><em>So she did, </em>he thought, glancing at her through the corner of his eyes. <em>Love me. Back then, and maybe now, still.</em></p><p>“How have you been sleeping?” is what he said instead, when the moment had spread between them long enough for him to think that he was safe to speak again with incurring her wrath once more. Her lips pressed into a thin line.</p><p>“Fine,” she replied, her voice tight.</p><p>“Yeah?” he asked, keeping his tone conversational. Elliot blinked once, slow, clearly trying to temper herself. “I just remember what a restless sleeper you were, back home.”</p><p>He wanted to say, <em>I saw you at three AM, twice, staring out your window and then walking out into the snow barefoot. I saw you sleepwalking, I know you aren’t sleeping well.</em></p><p>He wanted to say that, and he couldn’t, because if Elliot knew he’d been tailing her for a while she’d go berserk—pull the plug, self-destruct, take whatever loss she had to in order to fucking end him.</p><p>“I’m sleeping fine,” the redhead reiterated. For a second, she looked like she wanted to say something; her eyes flickered uneasily, like something was bothering her and she hadn’t been able to say it to anyone but <em>maybe</em> she wanted to, and <em>maybe</em> she could say it to him, but something in the treeline drew her attention away. They were about ten yards away, now, the low breeze skimming pine needles against each other as Boomer barked conversationally at the birds that had so rudely taken flight.</p><p>Elliot’s molars clicked, grinding together. Her lashes fluttered, and she sucked in a sharp little breath through her nose.</p><p>“Elliot?” John glanced at the trees, but that was all he saw—tall, dark pines, bunching together erratically through years of growth spurts and inevitable fellings. He turned his gaze back to his wife, gaze inquisitive. “What?”</p><p>“Don’t you—?” She stopped herself, and sucked in another sharp breath, and <em>now </em>John felt the concern spike sharp and hot in him, because when he reached up she didn’t even seem to register his movement; Elliot, the same woman who had snatched his wrist and threatened to snap it in half for having the audacity to ‘sneak up on her’ when he’d been in the middle of talking to her, completely transfixed on something that he couldn’t see.</p><p>“Elliot.” He tried something firmer this time, his hand coming up to sweep the strands of her hair away from her shoulder and neck. The gesture finally startled her out of wherever it was she had gone, yanked her back to reality.</p><p>Her shoulder bunched up to her jaw in an effort to deter his hand, swatting at him absently with her hand. “Don’t touch me.”</p><p>“Are you going to tell me where you were just now?” John asked, tilting his head inquisitively.</p><p>“I was here. Just thought I saw something in the trees,” she replied tightly, turning away from the treeline and clearing her throat. “Just birds.”</p><p><em>Just birds, </em>she said, even though the birds had already taken off and the forest was otherwise still and serene. Behind her, Boomer whined before beginning to follow her back towards the house. Elliot moved with a newfound purpose, one that she had been distinctly lacking before.</p><p>His mouth pressed into a thin line. John turned his attention back to the trees, searching for anything—any tangle of branches of play of shadows that might read sinister or threatening.</p><p>Only the trees and their shadowy pines. He thought about that night he’d fished Elliot out of the Family’s grip, when she’d been so fucking drugged up to her gills that she’d balked at the sight of the treeline on their way out. <em>I don’t think I can, </em>she’d said then, her voice pitching high with the anxious vibrations of <em>panic. John, I don’t think I can—</em></p><p>“John,” Elliot snapped from ahead of him, “are you coming, or are you just gonna stand there all fucking afternoon?”</p><p>He thought about the way Ase had grabbed her hand, blood and viscera coating Elliot like she’d become a tried-and-true Scream Queen. If he searched long enough, if he sat in the memory long enough—did Ase’s mouth open? Had she said something to Elliot? <em>What had she said?</em></p><p>“<em>John,”</em> came the grinding demand, again, less patient than before. “As much as I would <em>love</em> to leave you to freeze to death for insinuating I’m stupid, mama would hate to have to deal with a corpse on her property and I’d never hear the end of it.”</p><p>“I missed our banter,” he replied, though the jest did not quite land the same way that it would have were he not so deep in his own thoughts. By the time he’d started walking in her direction, his back to the forest, something uneasy had settled just under his skin; the feeling of being <em>watched, </em>eyes on the back of his neck, anticipation prickling along like his spine.</p><p>The house loomed, polished and pristine, on the horizon; as they picked their way across the snowy field, Elliot puffing out breaths occasionally from the labor of it all, John tried to shake that pervasive feeling of dread that had settled over him.</p><p>Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Weyfield was just Weyfield, a small town not unlike Hope County, and maybe he was just jumpy from the way the Family had conducted their business, and <em>maybe</em> it was the same for Elliot, who had certainly been put through a different experience than he—but regardless:</p><p>The sooner they got out, the better.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>
  <em>Shouldn’t have agreed to let him drive me here.</em>
</p><p>“Have you been getting enough sleep?”</p><p>
  <em>It was stupid. Stupid, I should have put my foot down, told him to fucking stay at the house and wait for me to come back.</em>
</p><p>“Elliot?”</p><p>She blinked, vision fuzzing and refocusing around the sterile white of the doctor’s office. Her abdomen was sticky, and the ultrasound machine had been turned off along with her shirt tugged back down. Like usual, Dr. Harding did not say anything about the gossamer-webbing of scars, but did pause upon first seeing them, as though she hadn’t seen them times before.</p><p>“Sorry?” Elliot said, the apology quirking up at the end in question. She sat up from the bed, the paper crinkling beneath her as she moved.</p><p>“I asked,” Harding reiterated, “have you been getting enough sleep?”</p><p>Elliot knew the answer. She felt the exhaustion souring in her mouth already, the way something spoiled when it went too long without attention. A <em>sickness. </em>She should say that she hadn’t been sleeping well at all, that she’d begun sleepwalking, that</p><p>(<em>seeing things, I’m seeing things when I close my eyes and when I look in the dark treeline, I see faces, heads, people I don’t know but they feel familiar and their faces drop down in between the branches of trees on invisible silk threads and their terrible dark mouths open but they can’t scream</em>)</p><p>she’d been feeling out of sorts, as of late. That seemed like a nice way to put it.</p><p>The dark images that had fluttered between the trees on her walk earlier that morning with John felt as real as any memory—and that wasn’t to say that her memories always felt real, because they didn’t. But the validity of this morning’s waking nightmare of floating heads drifting between tree-trunks, swinging loosely while John asked her how she’d been sleeping.</p><p>“Fine,” Elliot said after a moment, feeling a fresh wave of nausea come over her. “I think, um, maybe the stress about the baby is keeping me up at night.”</p><p>Harding regarded her for a moment. The severe sharpness of her dark hair pinned back did nothing to soften her expression—though the woman was hard-pressed to be cheerful, she, at the very least, never sugar-coated anything. “Have you been trying those breathing exercises before bed? And spending time at the stables, as I suggested?”</p><p>“I have,” she replied, which wasn’t entirely untrue—she was doing at least one of those things. “It’s just been a lot of—stress, is all. I’m sure it’ll get better once the holidays are over.”</p><p>“That can definitely help,” the woman agreed, nodding her head and typing a few loose notes into the computer. “If you find that you aren’t getting enough sleep—enough,” she continued, pointedly, “<em>restful</em> sleep, you let me know and we can figure out some next steps.”</p><p>Elliot nodded, coming to a stand; the sudden movement had her head rushing, and she for a second she thought again of the floating heads, swaying with the breeze through the pine boughs.</p><p>“I’ve been sleep-walking,” she blurted out impulsively, her doctor’s gaze turning quizzically towards her. “I mean—um, just twice.”</p><p>“Do you have a history of it?”</p><p>“No,” Elliot began, “but I’ve always been a restless sleeper.”</p><p>“It’s not uncommon for sleepwalking to increase with pregnancy, Miss Honeysett,” the doctor replied, her voice even-keel. “It sounds like you’re under quite a bit of pressure, as well. I would suggest trying something mild—an over-the-counter sleep aid would be fine. Unisom is a typical one. Try half of one first, and see how it makes you feel.”</p><p>“Okay,” she murmured, sliding her coat back on. Something that was less heavy-duty than the pills her mother had left for her might be good. “Are there any—symptoms? To sleeping pills?”</p><p>The doctor adjusted the glasses on her nose, regarding her for a long moment. “Some adverse side-effects, on occasion. Usually with stronger, prescription sleep aids, you could have worsening anxiety and depression, day-time drowsiness. That kind of thing.”</p><p>So, no hallucinations, then. No sleepwalking, no lost time, no...</p><p>“Are you having other symptoms?” Harding asked.</p><p><em>You’ll think I’m crazy, </em>Elliot thought, <em>you’ll think I’m fucking nuts if I tell you about my dream with the television, and Joey’s body, and walking out nearly to the treeline in my sleep clothes. You’ll think I’m fucking nuts and I’ll have to be committed.</em></p><p>So Elliot said, “No, just curious,” and Dr. Harding hummed as she scribbled the name of the sleep aid onto a sticky note for Elliot to take out with her.</p><p>“You have a healthy baby, Miss Honeysett. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?” The brunette gestured for Elliot to head out the door, walking with her back up the hallway that led to the front lobby once again. “Next appointment we can find out the gender, if you’d like.”</p><p>“Oh,” Elliot said, surprised. Was it that soon already? Had it already been that long of being—like this? <em>With child?</em> She swallowed, pleasant little flutters in her chest. It was the first time that she’d felt something other than dread concerning the baby. Well, first time, sans John’s annoying little assertion about his claim. Why had that bothered her so much?</p><p>“You can decide to keep it a surprise,” Dr. Harding added, sound a little amused. “Think about it, and in the meantime, get some rest. Half a pill to start, remember.”</p><p>“Will do, thank you.”</p><p>She waded through the small collection of people in the lobby and out onto the street. Something strange was humming inside of her—it was <em>sad, </em>she realized, with a little spike of panic. She felt <em>mournful. </em>So fast, and so soon, she would figure out the baby’s gender, and suddenly the baby would be all the more real and she’d have to start thinking about <em>names, </em>she couldn’t have a baby without a <em>name, </em>and how was she supposed to <em>pick</em> a name? How was she supposed to decide something a real human being was going to be saddled with, <em>forever?</em></p><p>Was the baby a Seed? Or a Honeysett?</p><p>
  <em>Which one was she?</em>
</p><p>“What’re you doing, just standing out here? You’ll freeze.” John’s voice broke her out of her thoughts, shaking her back to reality again. He must have seen her standing there, glassy-eyed in the middle of the sidewalk, from where he’d been waiting—perhaps, if she was lucky, even <em>suffering</em> over the fact that he hadn’t been allowed into the doctor’s appointment—and come out. He’d kicked up a big enough fuss about not getting to come in that she’d said, <em>fine, you can fucking <strong>drive me there, </strong>but that’s <strong>it, </strong></em>and true to his word John hadn’t pressed the matter any further than that.</p><p>Even though he wanted to. She could tell he wanted to, the second they had parked on the main street. She could tell he wanted to say, <em>so, maybe I do come in, hm? What do you say to that? </em>But he hadn’t. And that was...something.</p><p>Fuck, she needed to stay focused; she couldn’t keep letting her mind wander like that. Twice in less than an hour?</p><p>“I was just—thinking,” Elliot replied, feeling exhausted already. John’s brows furrowed at the center of his forehead, and she sighed. “Stop looking at me like that.”</p><p>He arched a dark brow loftily. “Like what?”</p><p>“Like you fucking care,” she snapped.</p><p>“Contrary to what you might believe concerning my feelings for <em>you,”</em> John quipped, his voice tart, “I do have every reason to be invested in the well-being of our baby.”</p><p>She thought to reiterate again that the baby was, in fact, hers, and not any part his, as <em>she</em> was doing all the work and John had done nothing to endear himself as an acceptable father-figure, but she was too tired. Something about the doctor’s office and the way she’d had to dodge the truth of how she’d been feeling left her empty, scooped out her insides like she was a Jack-O’-Lantern and left her floating, aimless.</p><p>“Ell,” he began. His voice had pitched lower, now, and his hand reached up; she saw it move in the corner of her vision and something inside her said, <em>yes yes yes, this is what we want, we remember you, we know you. </em>He twisted a loose curl around his finger, letting it smooth out against her shoulder, the corner of his mouth ticking upward when she absently batted his hand away. “Tell me about the appointment. Did everything go well?”</p><p>“The baby is fine,” she told him, and then sighed. “I mean—healthy. The baby is healthy. The doctor wants me to pick up an over-the-counter sleep aid, so we’ll need to stop at the store on the way home.”</p><p>“I thought you were sleeping fine?” John prompted. He sounded sly. His was a <em>gotcha</em> tone, the way he got when he thought he’d walked a particularly fine circle through the holes in what she chose to tell him or not. Elliot’s expression flattened. She ignored the way that he was looking at her—<em>hungryhungryhungry</em>, always greedy and never, never content with what he had—and fixed her eyes on the passing traffic behind him.</p><p>She said, “Just when you’re being somewhat tolerable, you have to go and ruin it.”</p><p>“If it’s intolerable for me to point out when you’re withholding information from me about your health,” he demurred, “then I’d prefer intolerable.”</p><p>“I cannot <em>believe</em> that I have to say this to you,” Elliot bit out, the sudden spike of irritation flaring hot and violence in her chest, “but I don’t fucking owe you <em>anything. </em>I don’t owe you the truth, or an explanation, and quite frankly, the fact that I allowed you to even chauffeur me to this fucking appointment is a sign that I’m being incredibly generous with you—far more generous than what you <em>deserve.</em>”</p><p>John’s teeth flashed in a grin. Before, back in Hope County, the venom had bothered him—he’d hated it, frowned and fought back with a little poison of his own, despised that he had to work so hard to get to the nitty-gritty underneath. But he had once, and perhaps now that he had <em>known</em> her, it only thrilled him.</p><p>How frustrating.</p><p>“Everything I did,” he said, lowering his voice as he closed some of the small distance between them now, “whether you believe me or not, was for <em>us—”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Ugh.”</em>
</p><p><em>“—</em>and I might have gotten a little <em>heated,”</em> John continued, and this time when he reached up again Elliot’s mouth twisted into a grimace and she tilted her face away, <em>don’t say it don’t say it don’t you fucking say it fuck you fuck you fuck you,</em> “back at the ranch, but I meant it when I said that I l—”</p><p>“Honeysett!”</p><p>It was Via. Her greeting immediately cut off John’s words, effectively driving a wedge between their metaphorical—and physical—closeness. Snapped her out of the magic of his cologne and his voice and his hand coming up to her shoulder with its grounding weight.</p><p>“Missed you at the barn today,” the blonde chirped, cheery as she approached, hands tucked into her fluffy parka pockets. Her eyes flickered over to John, inquisitive. “Friend?”</p><p>And then Via turned her eyes back to Elliot, waiting expectantly. It struck her quite suddenly that Sylvia was <em>checking—</em>that despite the kindness and warmth in her voice, she was giving Elliot the opportunity to escape, to wave a red flag and ask for help. She said <em>friend?, </em>and what she meant was, <em>is this man bothering you?, </em>and it made a fuzzy warmth spread right through Elliot’s chest, uncomfortable in the softness is inspired in her.</p><p>“Hey, Via, this is...” How best to proceed? How to explain, <em>this man is the father of my baby—which, by the way, I’m pregnant—and also technically we are legally married, oh and also he’s supposed to be in Federal custody right now but he isn’t, somehow, but it’s fine, we’re all good</em>? “...my...John.”</p><p>Sylvia eyed her for a moment, sticking out a gloved hand. “Howdy, Elliot’s John. I’m Sylvia.”</p><p>John was clearly trying not to have the biggest shit-eating grin on his face as he shook Via’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sylvia,” he replied pleasantly, once again reminding Elliot that the man was a tried-and-true practiced liar and could slip a perfect face on at any time. The knowledge was almost enticing, to know that she’d seen him without the masquerade, more than once.</p><p>It made, in hindsight, reflecting back on that moment he’d come unraveled at the ranch—<em>No way, baby, I’m fucking <strong>it</strong> for you—</em>have a different light. <em>She</em> had done that to him.</p><p>Good.</p><p>“Y’all busy?” Sylvia asked, blissfully not prying any further for an elaboration on what the nature of their relationship was. “I was just about to meet Wyatt at the Wild Rose. It ain’t trivia night, but they do have a live band playing tonight that’s supposed to be good.”</p><p>“Oh,” Elliot said faintly, “I don’t think—”</p><p>“That sounds excellent!” John interrupted. “I’ve barely seen anything of Weyfield. What do you say, Elliot?”</p><p><em>I say you can eat shit, </em>she thought, but Sylvia was watching her closely—trying to make sure everything was okay, she supposed, considering Elliot had said nothing of John since they’d become friends. She took in a little breath and looked at the blonde, giving a small smile.</p><p>“No harm in a little time out of the house,” she agreed after a moment. “I’m starving, anyway.”</p><p>She wasn’t hungry in the least. The sticky note with the doctor’s suggested sleep aid was crumple in her pocket, and a little sweaty from the way she’d been clutching it, but somehow the idea of returning back to the house only seemed to fill her with <em>more</em> dread.</p><p>The tv, buzzing static, dull and thrumming in the back of her head, in the roots of her molars. <em><strong>HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS? </strong></em>And the heads, twisting and turning in the breeze, their silk-spun puppet threads invisible, their mouths swinging open as they try to scream.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS?</strong> </em>
</p><p>“Well, can’t have you starvin’,” Sylvia said amusedly, looping her arm through Elliot’s own and beginning to walk. “You’re not keeping my girl well-fed, Mister John?”</p><p>“Trying my hardest,” John replied, his gaze sly, “but she can be a bit ornery.”</p><p>“Hm, that does sound like her. Where are you visitin’ from, anyway?”</p><p>As they chattered, over her, John on one side and Sylvia on the other, Elliot got the distinct impression that her friend was quietly, politely fishing for information without putting Elliot under the stress of it.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>HAVE YOU </strong> </em>
</p><p>Snow underfoot. The forest breathing, expanding, <em>swelling</em> because it holds some great, dark beast just waiting for her to get close enough.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>BEEN HAVING</strong> </em>
</p><p>(Itwaitsforyouitwaitsforusallanditwillhaveyou)</p><p>
  <em> <strong>STRANGE</strong> </em>
</p><p>“Careful,” John cautioned, reaching for the door with all of the gentlemanly nature of a man not possessed by the devil to hunt her down across states, “it’s slick.”</p><p>He opened the door into the Wild Rose, the sweep of warm air rushing over her a pleasant shock to her system that managed to draw her back to reality. Sylvia nudged her inside, effectively planting herself between Elliot and John as they moved single-file into the crowded bar.</p><p>She was tired, and having nightmares, and once she finally got some sleep she would feel a lot better about everything. All she needed was some sleep. And in the meantime, try to enjoy her time with her friends as best she could.</p><p>Get some sleep. Feel better in the morning. Burke’s old mantra popped up in her head, running through the worn grooves that were a sad, bittersweet sort of comfort to her now; <em>the second you think you can’t anymore, you keep going anyway.</em> Dig, dig, dig, until her fingers were dirt-packed and bloody, as deep as she fucking needed to go to keep moving, because it wasn’t just about her anymore.</p><p>Get some sleep.</p><p>Feel better in the morning.</p><p>Sylvia had drifted out from their little formation to make her way to the booth they had recently staked out as their own, where Wyatt already sat waiting and waving for them. John planted his hands on her shoulders, squeezing and lowering his mouth to her ear. “What do you want to drink?”</p><p>“You’re acting awfully domestic for someone who should be in Federal custody,” Elliot replied lowly, looking at him over her shoulder just in time to see him flash a smile that was all teeth.</p><p>“C’mon, hellcat,” and he all but <em>purred</em> the words at her, making her skin prickle in a type of anticipation that wasn’t purely dread. Traitorous, treacherous body. “You can at least play at liking me while your friends are around.”</p><p>“Iced tea.” She shrugged, disembarking his hands from her shoulders. “No lemon. A lot of ice. Think you can swing it without, I don’t know, lying halfway to Hell on your way there, Slick?”</p><p>“Anything,” he replied, pitching his voice even lower amidst the din of the bar, “for my <em>lovely</em> wife.”</p><p>Elliot’s head snapped around, ready to grab a fistful of his shirt and remind him to watch his fucking mouth, but he’d already started his journey to meander through the crowd and reach the bar on his little fetch quest.</p><p><em>Fucker, </em>she thought, even when her stomach twisted with something other than vicious disdain. John had only been here for a day and was already too comfortable taking liberties; she’d have to make sure <em>that</em> got nipped in the bud before he got any funny ideas about his own personal redemption arc.</p><p>It would have been nice, to just be able to turn off any and all feelings whenever she wanted. But she couldn’t, and that meant she’d have to do the next best thing:</p><p>Get John the fuck away from her.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Eden’s Gate did not make a good first impression. Eden’s Gate did not even make a good second or third impression; in fact, Isolde had come to the conclusion that Joseph’s little compound was incapable of making any impression that didn’t fill the observer with a sense of despair. Every time she stepped out of the little building Jacob had set her up in, she was overwhelmed with disgust—eyes followed her, but none of them held anything beyond a dull spark of interest, nearly smothered by what seemed to have been a full-body beat down by the other cult.</p><p>The <em>other</em> cult, she constantly had to remind herself, because that’s what Eden’s Gate was. A <em>cult.</em></p><p>A few miserable days at the hands of Montana’s coldest winter by record had her in a foul mood. The snowfall seemed <em>inevitable, </em>like it wouldn't ever stop, and the amount of times there had been paths shoveled between buildings—all leading to the chapel—were equally endless. Isolde couldn’t imagine coming to fucking Montana for <em>fun, </em>let alone for <em>work, </em>and yet she was somehow here for the latter and not the former. Distinctly, painfully lacking in fun.</p><p>It didn’t help that Joseph was insufferable. It didn’t help that every time he fixed his eyes on her, she felt an uncomfortable heat dripping down her spine like some kind of molten IV, like they hadn’t left on the worst of terms. Like she hadn’t told him to get the fuck out of her loft, like she hadn’t thrown an engagement ring on the floor like it was poison.</p><p>That was a time of her life that she had the distinct desire to not revisit, not even once, and yet in his presence—she found it nearly impossible to ignore. Joseph seemed to take a special, muted pleasure in making her hackles raise, and at least <em>that</em> hadn’t changed about him.</p><p>“Sol!”</p><p>Jacob called to her from halfway down the compound’s yard, a truck idling beside him. She stopped her trek back to her little hovel and looked at him, arms crossing over her chest.</p><p>“You wanna get out for a little?” He inclined his head toward the truck. “I’ve got some errands to run.”</p><p>“What kind of errands do the Collapse dictate?” she asked.</p><p>“The important variety.”</p><p>“<em>Hm.”</em></p><p>She didn’t elaborate on that any further, and Jacob waited only one heartbeat before he reached for the driver’s side door and opened it, slowly.</p><p>“Going once—”</p><p>“I am not a <em>child, </em>Jacob.”</p><p>“—going twice—”</p><p>Fuck, did she want to get out.</p><p>“<em>Fine,”</em> Isolde snapped, “but bring that truck here. I’m not hiking through a snowdrift to get to you.”</p><p>Jacob, sounding quite pleased with himself, replied, “I thought you weren’t a child?”</p><p>He seemed moved enough by the dramatic eyeroll to oblige her, and if he found it annoying, it didn’t show; enough so, at least, that Isolde was able to clamber into the passenger side of the truck once he pulled it around, tapping the snow off of her shoes before pulling herself in.</p><p>“<em>Thank</em> you,” she huffed, shutting the door and rubbing her fingers to circulate the blood again. “This weather’s a bit abnormal, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Not anything out of the ordinary for this time of year, no,” Jacob replied. He nudged the windshield wipers on, plowing a thin layer of snow that had already begun to accumulate off of the window before starting to pull out of the compound. “I think you’re just not suited to the snow.”</p><p>“Could have told you that myself,” Isolde snipped. “I’m a hot-blooded creature.”</p><p>Jacob made a noise, something like an <em>mm, </em>a place between agreement without incriminating himself by agreeing too fervently or elaborately. She glanced over at him through the corners of her eyes as they turned onto the highway. In the comfortable silence that elapsed between them, Isolde settled back against the seat of the truck and tried to appreciate being out from the stifling dread of the compound.</p><p>It did seem to her that Joseph was markedly different than he had been, before. In the few instances in the last couple of days where he hadn’t been picking a fight with her, it almost felt normal—but of course, he was doing it in his own way, this pot-stirring, this <em>instigating. </em>With politeness. With kindness. By remaining completely unrattled by anything she said to him, every, any critique, so self-assured in his righteousness that not even reason could make him look twice at the state of his congregation.</p><p>Then, he had always been that way. Righteous. <em>Assured. </em>She had found it appealing, once—she liked a man with confidence—but now she found it—</p><p>Equal parts frustrating and attractive. Objectively, of course. Not anything that she felt herself.</p><p>“Trying to account for the bodies of the Family against the ones we know we saw before,” Jacob explained, when she had been quiet long enough to let him sort out his thoughts. “Seems like they started killing themselves, in pairs, once the two leaders were done with. I sent out a couple of scouts and they radio’d back some locations, but they’ve gone quiet for a while.”</p><p>“Dedication,” Isolde murmured, digging the nail of her thumb into her lower lip. “How <em>dreadful.”</em></p><p>“The dedication, or the act?”</p><p>“Both. Imagine being so bound to something or someone.”</p><p>Jacob’s mouth twisted in a wry smile, and he brought the truck to a crawl. Two bodies, swallowed by snow nearly up to their waists, sat propped against the cliff face. He fished a pad of paper and a near-worn out pencil out of the center console of the truck and held them out to her.</p><p>“Mark it down, Sol.” When she blinked at him, he continued, “What, you thought you were gonna get out and <em>not</em> help me?”</p><p>“Well, I was hoping.”</p><p>She sighed, taking the pad and pencil—<em>a glorified secretary is what I am, </em>she thought bitterly—and marked two tally marks down. From where the car was stopped, she could see that the arms of the corpses came together, and though it was buried in snow, she had to think that beneath the white frost their hands were intertwined.</p><p>They went like that for a while; Jacob would drive to a spot, have her mark down the amount of bodies, and then go on. By the time they had reached Fall’s End, Isolde had counted nearly twenty dead bodies. As they rolled into the far end of town, Isolde realized very quickly that most of the buildings were blackened, and when she rolled down her window, the stale scent of charcoal still sat in the air.</p><p><em>“What</em> happened here?” she asked, grimacing and scrunching up her nose.</p><p>“Dunno,” Jacob replied tightly. “Someone with an agenda.”</p><p>Isolde’s gaze snapped to him, to try and wring any information out of his expression, but true to his nature Jacob remained completely unreadable. It wasn’t until they had gotten to what appeared to have once been a bar and tallied up the bodies there that Jacob threw the truck into park.</p><p>“What in the fuck?” he muttered, eyes fixed forward. When Sol followed his gaze, she realized that it was fixed on someone—someone running towards them, frantically, nearly falling over themselves in the snow.</p><p>“Is that one of yours?” she asked. “Jacob?”</p><p>“Shh.”</p><p>He had busied himself fishing around in the back seat, and as he did Isolde squinted, trying to get a better look at what was going on. The man running definitely had to be Eden’s Gate—he had the big red emblem on his shirt, but he wasn’t wearing any coat, and—</p><p>And there were others.</p><p>“Jacob,” Isolde said, “there are more.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Bodies,” she managed out, “there are more <em>bodies.”</em></p><p>The snow wasn’t so deep on the roads that she couldn’t see the width of a body, and she did—<em>see</em> it, that is, tousled dark locks reflecting wet and sticky in the overcast, late-afternoon light. The man running was waving his arms and yelling for help, and then he fell over one of the bodies, fell to his hands and knees over the body of someone else, and made a sound kind of like anguish.</p><p>Jacob finally managed to pull out what he’d been looking for—a pair of binoculars—and immediately lifted them to his face.</p><p>“Shit,” he said. “Fuck, they’re ours.”</p><p>“All of them?” Isolde demanded. “They’re <em>all—”</em></p><p>“Yes,” he bit out, opening the driver’s door and grabbing the rifle from the back seat. “They’re <em>all</em> ours. Isolde, stay in—”</p><p>Jacob’s words were cut off by the violent crack of a gunshot. For a split second, Isolde saw nothing; in the space between heartbeats, sluggish from panic, she saw the arterial spray coming from the back of the running man’s body before he hit the ground, screaming.</p><p>He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead, he was still crawling, dragging himself through the snow, leaving a smear of red behind him, and that’s when Isolde saw <em>them.</em></p><p>Jacob had stopped moving as well. The person at the far end of the main road leading through Fall’s End had yet to shoulder their weapon. From here, Isolde could see that she was tall—short-cropped, blonde hair, swathed in dark clothes, but beyond that the features were near impossible to make out.</p><p>“Close the door,” Isolde hissed, not moving, her instincts screaming to duck but the fear that sudden movement would draw attention prevailing. “Jacob, <em>close the fucking door.”</em></p><p>The eerily satisfying <em>click-click </em>of what could only be the bolt-action rifle in the hunter’s hands clattered around in her head. The rifle was returned to their shoulders, brought up level, and then fired again.</p><p>Out of pure instinct, Isolde flinched—but once again, the bullet was aimed not at them, but at the man already crawling in the snow. The sound of the gunshot, and the subsequent bullet-on-bone impact, was enough to make her stomach churn; now, at least, the man lay slumped in the snow, one of the many bodies that seemed to have been the unfortunate pull-and-fire clay birds for the stranger.</p><p>“Who,” Isolde whispered furiously, as Jacob carefully put the truck into drive without letting it move forward at all first, “Jacob, who the <em>fuck</em> is <em>that?”</em></p><p>The redhead’s expression was unforgivingly tight, pulling taut with it the scars and mottling of his skin visible outside of his beard. He wasn’t looking at her, but rather kept his eyes fixed forward, as he closed the driver’s side door.</p><p>“Fifteen men,” he ground out between his teeth, “that’s <em>fifteen fucking men </em>I sent out here to figure out the body count.”</p><p>The stranger finally lowered their rifle, apparently satisfied with their work. This far away, it was hard to tell, but Isolde got the distinct impression that they were being watched, looked at now, where before the attention had been elsewhere.</p><p>And then it was confirmed, because the stranger lifted one gloved hand and pressed her index and middle fingers right against the hollows of her jaw. A snakebite. A cut right to the carotid. A <em>message.</em></p><p>Jacob cranked the wheel, the tires shrieking in protest against the snow as he pulled between buildings in a sudden rush of acceleration. The stranger was quickly cut out, stifled by the side of the used-to-be-bar, leaving them out of direct range of a sniper rifle. Not that her companion seemed that <em>pleased</em> about it, anyway.</p><p>“Fuck,” he bit out, seething as he tried to navigate the narrow space in the clumsy Eden’s Gate truck. “<em>Fuck, </em>did you count how many bodies were on the ground?”</p><p>“Hm, <em>no!” </em>Isolde snapped viciously. “I was a bit too busy trying to make sure they were going to shoot <em>us</em>!”</p><p>Jacob gritted out another string of swears between his teeth, turning the truck until he could take what looked to be a back alley in the opposite direction of their little hunter. He checked the rearview mirror frequently; his expression was set in a deep frown, and he only looked at her <em>once</em> before continuing his regular scanning of the road behind them.</p><p>“Well, aren’t you going to turn around?” she demanded.</p><p>“For what?” Jacob replied flatly. “I’ve got a hunting rifle, not my HTI.”</p><p>“I don’t know what that means, and I don’t care,” Isolde bit out.</p><p>“It means, the chances of <em>me</em> getting shot before I get a shot on them are significantly lower,” he told her, his knuckles whitening along the steering wheel, “and as confident as I am that I could kill them before they killed me, I’m <em>not </em>confident they wouldn’t take a shot at you first.”</p><p>Isolde’s stomach rolled. It wasn’t the violence that bothered her—it wasn’t the death, or the guns, or even the blood—but the message itself. The Stranger had been hunting the Eden’s Gate men and women for sport. For fun. To pass the time, while they waited. But what for? What could they be waiting for?</p><p>She stayed quiet, listening to Jacob radio back to the compound quick, short orders that flew right over her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about it—the gesture. The stranger. Who were they? The remainder of the other cult, perhaps? <em>What were they waiting for?</em></p><p><em>You’re next, </em>that two-fingered, snake-bite-right-to-the-carotid gesture had said.</p><p>
  <em>You’re next, and I’m coming for you.</em>
</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Sylvia did not seem that impressed with John Seed, and Elliot could not blame her.</p><p>John was exceptionally charming. So charming, in fact, that he and <em>Wyatt</em> seemed to get along smashingly. It was almost frustrating, how quick the blonde took to John—but then, Wyatt did strike as the type of man who got along with everybody until they gave him a reason to think otherwise. After all, he’d been kind to <em>her</em>, and she was...</p><p>Needless to say, Sylvia was a harder sell, which was nice. Reassuring. It made Elliot feel more grounded, to see Sylvia politely smile at John’s chatter—she’d nearly forgotten <em>how much </em>he liked to talk—but then decidedly turn to Elliot to ask her about something or dive into a different conversation. It was pointed, and if the way John watched them interact was any indication, the message of it was <em>not</em> lost on him.</p><p>By the time the evening had drawn to a close, for her and John at least, the brunette had departed to go warm-up the Jeep and left her standing by the doorway, keeping warm, with Sylvia.</p><p>“You sure you’re doin’ okay?” the blonde asked after a moment, propped up against the wall in the tiny little doorway that led out to the main street. “You look tired. Stressed out. I was worried when we didn’t hear from you this morning, about comin’ to the barn.”</p><p>Elliot felt a little pang of guilt digging in, just there below her sternum. “I’m okay,” she promised. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, I—had a doctor’s appointment this morning that I completely forgot about until my mama reminded me, and John showed up this morning too, so it’s just been...”</p><p>“A crazy day,” Via agreed, her nose crinkling cutely in amusement. “He’s a funny fella, that John of yours.”</p><p><em>Oh, if only you knew.</em> “I think so, too.”</p><p>“What is he?” she asked, conversationally. “Maybe a—car salesman?”</p><p>Her friend’s playful jab was enough to elicit a laugh, billowing out of her and catching even herself by surprise. But then, she shouldn’t have been shocked to find that Sylvia had gotten a quick read on John. Given the way she’d quickly diverted from the attention on Elliot’s scar and carried on, she thought maybe Via was more perceptive than she liked to let on.</p><p>“Lawyer,” Ell replied, and Via winced comically.</p><p>“Ouch.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know.”</p><p>“I mean—Elli,” Via intoned playfully, “he might as well be sellin’ you snake oil when he’s a lawyer.”</p><p>Elliot sighed ruefully, glancing out the window to see John clambering out of the front of the jeep. Snake oil seemed a light judgment for him, all things considered.</p><p>“Hey, Via,” she began, swallowing a little, “if I tell you something, you’ve gotta promise you won’t say anything?”</p><p>Via regarded her curiously, head tilted. “Okay, sure, Freckles. What’s up?”</p><p>She shifted on her feet. “John and I are actually, um—” Elliot paused, swallowing thickly. She didn’t <em>want </em>to say it. She didn’t want to, because saying it out loud—her, and not John—made it real. Gave it legs. Forced her to face what had happened and what she couldn’t change yet.</p><p>“You don’t have to,” Via told her gently. “I could tell there was somethin’—you know, out of sorts. You don’t get a slick-talkin’ lawyer grinnin’ like the cat what ate the canary if he hasn’t done <em>somethin’</em> to piss a woman off.”</p><p>Elliot shook her head. “We’re actually, uh,” she tried again, pulling at a loose thread on her shirt, “m—married.”</p><p>Saying the word out loud didn’t <em>feel</em> as wretched as she thought it would, which was almost three times as concerning. She felt, instead, more dread waiting for Sylvia’s reaction—waiting to see what her one friend had to say or think about that.</p><p>The woman’s face screwed up comedically. “Oh, <em>Freckles,”</em> she said, her tone teasing. “Say it ain’t so.”</p><p>“I’m not kidding!” Elliot felt a nervous little laugh bubble out of her. “I mean—what, Via? You clearly have an opinion on him.”</p><p>“I don’t know the man from Jack walkin’ down the street,” Sylvia demurred. “I just think...well, I just think you’re a real peach, you know? And you didn’t seem too pleased to have this John walkin’ around, and I take that kind of thing seriously.”</p><p>Sighing, Elliot scuffed her shoe against the ground, watching John pick his way through the crowd back down the street.</p><p>“We left on—bad terms, sort of,” she explained. “He showed up to make amends.”</p><p>“Do <em>you</em> want to make amends?”</p><p>The question caught her off-guard. It was an obvious one—obvious in that, it should have been one of the first things anyone asked her regarding John, even John <em>himself, </em>and yet: no one had. Not a single person had asked her if she wanted to suffer through making amends with the man who had lied to her, violated her trust, and still somehow managed to be the one person she didn’t have to fear seeing the worst, ugliest parts of her.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Elliot said after a moment, clearing her throat. “I haven’t decided yet.”</p><p>“Then I will reserve judgment,” Sylvia replied firmly, “so you can make a decision on your own.”</p><p>The door to the street opened, bringing with it not only a waft of chilly wind, but John himself and the scent of his viciously-expensive cologne. It took every ounce of Elliot’s self-control not to burst into laughter at the absurdity of it—John Seed, charisma-extraordinaire, somehow managing to make poor first impressions both on her mother <em>and</em> her friend.</p><p>“Car’s all warmed up,” John announced, rubbing his hands together. He glanced between the two women, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “What’s so funny, hm?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Elliot replied. “Just talking about you.”</p><p><em>This </em>piqued his interest. He said, “Good things, I hope,” and she could see it on his face—the painful reminder of the way John had craved Joseph’s approval, the way he’d lit up like a nuclear mushroom cloud the second Joseph deigned to say anything remotely kind to him.</p><p>“Jury’s still out,” Sylvia said lightly, and then flashed a pretty smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “But don’t worry bud! We’ll get you there eventually.”</p><p>John tried very hard to feign polite laughter, but the uneasiness bled through readily—and it was a little satisfying, to see John squirm, to see him out of his element, no longer surrounded by a constant chorus of <em>Yes</em> hitting his dopamine centers nonstop. No wonder the man had a conniption anytime someone dared to dislike him.</p><p>“Better get this lady home, she looks like she’s about to fall asleep standing,” Sylvia announced, reaching and giving Elliot a gentle hug. “Night, Freckles.”</p><p>“Goodnight.”</p><p>John and Sylvia bid each other a pleasant goodbye as Elliot stepped out onto the street, careful to avoid icier parts of the concrete as she made her way to the car. Her brain felt fuzzy—a lot of socializing, a lot of time spent trying not to let John get to her. It had been long enough since she’d had to hold her walls up for so long that she felt exhausted from doing it, even for this long.</p><p>Maybe that was his strategy. Wear her down, then swoop in, just like last time.</p><p>“Did you have fun?” John asked, and she realized that she was at the car, having climbed into the passenger seat already. He closed the driver’s side door, settling in before carefully beginning to back out of the parking spot.</p><p>“I mean, having you loom over my shoulder the entire night was a little odd.”</p><p>He made an affronted sound. “I was not <em>looming.”</em></p><p>“You were,” Elliot told him, “a little.” She paused, feeling the exhaustion pulling at the edges of her vision, begging for her to close her eyes—but she couldn’t. Not in the car, not with John driving. If she did, he might just keep driving and not turn back around. “It’s funny—”</p><p>“My quote-unquote looming?”</p><p>“How much different you are,” she finished, “when you’re not around Joseph.”</p><p>John was clearly trying very hard not to look like he was stiffening at her words. <em>Gotcha, </em>she thought, with a little pinprick of pride. <em>Yeah, I didn’t forget. I didn’t forget how much you hated it when I brought him up.</em></p><p>“I don’t know what you mean,” John replied, keeping his voice light. “I’m exactly the way I’ve always been.”</p><p>“You haven’t tried to drown me a single time.”</p><p>“That time was a miscommunication,” he insisted. “I wasn’t trying to drown you. Just—coerce you. And besides, that’s behind us now. I know you, Elliot Honeysett, <em>intimately, </em>which means such forms of brute persuasion aren’t required.” He paused. “It’s much better when you indulge me willingly, anyway.”</p><p>Elliot’s nose crinkled. “You sound fucking nuts when you say that. ‘That one time I thought about drowning you was just a miscommunication’. No wonder Sylvia doesn’t like you.”</p><p>“So she told you? That she doesn’t like me?”</p><p>He paused for a moment, his gaze flickering over to her, and when he saw the very subtle upturn of her mouth he exhaled out of his nose.</p><p>“You’re fucking with me.”</p><p>“Not necessarily. But if I was—it would be the least you deserve.”</p><p>He <em>was</em> different, out from the insane pressure of the cult, out from under Joseph’s thumb. It was like, given room to breathe, he was suddenly relearning what it was like to make his own decision—to exist <em>outside </em>of Joseph. Back in Hope County, John had been fervent in his belief that he owed Joseph everything. Maybe the distance had done him some good.</p><p><em>Don’t, </em>something inside of her insisted viciously, as she turned her attention out to the side of the road where the headlights illuminated snowdrift after snowdrift. <em>Don’t get soft on him. That’s how he got you last time, you know. Don’t let it happen again.</em></p><p>But if he wanted to press the issue about Sylvia—or about her comment concerning Joseph—John seemed to exercise a remarkable amount of self-control and instead focused on driving. In the quiet, without him chattering on about <em>doing things for them </em>or how much he <em>missed our banter, </em>it was almost...Comfortable.</p><p>“Finding out the gender,” Elliot said after a moment, the exhaustion now settling like a deep chill in her bones. “Of the baby, I mean. At the next appointment.”</p><p>The brunette shifted in his seat. In an attempt at nonchalance, he said, “Oh, yeah?”</p><p><em>What am I doing? </em>she thought. <em>He plays nice for one night. He’s good at that. Short-term goodness.</em></p><p>“I’m nervous,” she added after a moment. “About finding out.”</p><p>“Not excited?” John tilted his head.</p><p>“No,” she admitted. “Nervous.”</p><p>Ahead of them, she saw the dark blur of a figure. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. John was saying something—something about how he’d read a number of books and it was normal to feel nervous, or some other kind of psycho babble—but she shifted forward in her seat, eyes straining to see.</p><p>“Slow down,” she said, “I think there’s a dog...?”</p><p>“What?” John asked. “Where? I don’t see anything.”</p><p>“Just up ahead. Have you not been paying attention to the road?”</p><p>He made an indignant sound—“I am the <em>best</em> driver between the two of us, you know,”—but before Elliot could think up a response, the dark, furred creature slowed down ahead of them, stopped in the middle of the road, and turned its head.</p><p>The headlights caught it immediately. It was a dog, four-legged and large and shaggy black fur, but when it turned its head, it was a <em>man’s </em>face, the mouth slung open and the gently-rounded teeth of a human’s mouth blaring white in the headlights. Something dark and slick oozed between the teeth, in that split second, she watched the dog-human-creature push off from the ground and stand on its two hind legs.</p><p>She screamed, and John swerved, and immediately threw the car into park and slammed his hand on the hazard lights button.</p><p>It was dread, <em>pure dread </em>and <em>fear, </em>sending a pulse of adrenaline straight to her brain. Bent over at the waist, Elliot closed her eyes tight, trying to will the image out of her head, out from behind her irises. John had quickly unbuckled and reached over, his hands doing the same to hers.</p><p>“Elliot,” he said urgently, fingers pushing the hair back from her face. “Ell, take a breath, come on—sit up, you have to take a breath—”</p><p>“Is—is it gone?” she asked, but the words came out closer to a wail, the fear spiking viciously in the timbre of her voice. <em>Please, God, what the fuck, please let it be gone. God, oh fuck, what the fuck what the fuck— </em>“The—the—”</p><p>“There’s nothing—?” John stopped. Elliot frantically scrabbled at the high neck of her parka, fingers shaking and clumsy. “Ell—”</p><p>“Can’t breathe,” she managed out. “Too hot, can’t—”</p><p>The brunette reached over the console and stilled her hands. She was still bent at the waist, but he made do, pulling the zipper of the parka down until she could pull her arms from it; once it had been deposited in the back seat, his hand went to the back of her neck.</p><p>She sat up slowly, her eyes immediately making a frantic search of the road. There was nothing. Only quiet snowfall.</p><p>“Where—” She paused, swallowing thickly. “Where did it go?”</p><p>“Ell,” John murmured, “there wasn’t anything in the road.”</p><p>“What do you <em>mean?”</em> she moaned. “I <em>saw </em>it, the—I saw the—”</p><p>“You saw...?” he prompted. His thumb swept across the back of her neck, coaxing.</p><p>“The <em>dog,”</em> she insisted. “It was a dog, but it had—it’s face was—it was a <em>man’s</em> face, and it f-fucking—it fucking stood<em> up, </em>John!”</p><p>He was watching her carefully, his gaze searching her face for a long moment. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t see anything,” he told her. “Just that you—you just screamed, so I pulled over.”</p><p>“I’m not <em>crazy,”</em> Elliot bit out, her voice wobbling.</p><p>“I know,” John replied plainly. “Maybe it was just—you know. The snow. In front of the headlights.” And then: “Have you really been getting enough sleep, Ell?”</p><p>She felt her lip tremble, the desire to cry almost overwhelming. She couldn’t stand it—couldn’t stand John being <em>tender</em> to her, worrying about her, questioning the validity of her saying that she had been sleeping fine because he could see that she couldn’t. He was wretched and wicked and it needed to stay that way.</p><p>“Please take me home,” she said finally, re-buckling and rolling the window down to let the cold air on her face. “Please just take me home.”</p><p>John waited for a few heartbeats before he turned the hazard lights off and put the Jeep in drive.</p><p>“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he told her after a moment, glancing at her a few times. “I mean it, Ell.”</p><p>“Fuck you,” she replied, exhausted and feeling furiously wound up. “Just take me home.”</p><p>Get some sleep.</p><p>
  <em>Feel better in the morning.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. starving limbs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter is a tiny bit of an interlude! we get some new players introduced (please note the tags), some ssssssssslooooooooow development with john and elliot too, and just a bit more intrigue. sorry in advance that i can't write anything that doesn't have both body horror and horror-humor in it.</p><p>warnings: the aforementioned body horror. joseph spends .000000003 seconds about to go demon but manages to rein it in. uhhhhh LOTS of uncomfortably awkward dialogue. and allusions to past ~steaminess~. that should be it!</p><p>thank you to my beloved starcrier and shallow-gravy for putting their eyeballs on this for me, and vasiktomis for listening to me wax and wane poetic about my agvonies; i would be nothing, no-one, without you, and i love you all so dearly!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Who was that?”</p><p>Tall, short-cropped blonde hair. Lots of dark layers. A bolt-action rifle with a scope on it.</p><p>“Jacob.”</p><p><em>Not one of ours, </em>he thought, turning the truck onto the highway. <em>Not one of ours. Thought the fuckers were all dead or gone. Where the fuck did she come from?</em></p><p>“Why aren’t we going back to the compound?”</p><p>
  <em>Did she set Fall’s End on fire?</em>
</p><p>“Jacob?”</p><p>“Holy shit.” He exhaled the words out of his mouth, billowing out of his chest in a sigh that only barely scratched the surface of his frustration at listening to Isolde pester him nonstop. Without looking at the brunette next to him, Jacob said, “You must be where John learned how <em>not</em> to shut the fuck up.”</p><p>He could <em>feel</em> Isolde’s eyes narrow more than he saw it happen. “I think that’s a <em>Seed</em> trait.”</p><p>“If I knew who that was,” Jacob continued, glossing over her little barb, “don’t you think I would have said?”</p><p>“Oh, please. You seem the type to get off on being withholding,” Sol snipped pointedly. He shot her a look.</p><p>“Don’t throw a tantrum, Isolde.”</p><p>“So why aren’t we going back to the compound?” She pressed, and Jacob’s mouth twisted into a grimace. It was a fair enough question—more fair than the initial one she’d posed, anyway—but even now, to a woman that was arguably close enough to a sister-in-law one way or another, he found himself reluctant to elaborate.</p><p>It had been over a year of refusing to expand upon questions his brothers posed, absences from family gatherings or an unwillingness to pursue people who had shown a clear romantic interest in him. There were some things that—well, that he had selfishly wanted to keep for himself.</p><p>“Gotta pick someone up,” is what he said after a moment, turning down the highway toward the Whitetails.</p><p>Isolde turned the heater up, and glanced behind them, as though their little <em>guest</em> might have taken to following them. “And <em>who,</em> pray tell, are we picking up?”</p><p>He exhaled out of his nose. “Stop asking questions.”</p><p>“Well, you Seed boys have a habit of leaving crucial information out!” Isolde snapped. “For example: John led me to believe that this encroaching cult was well and done, taken care of, extinguished, eliminated, <em>exorcised</em>—”</p><p>“You’re on a tangent.”</p><p>“There wasn’t supposed to <em>be</em> anymore,” she said after a moment. “Hunting. Killing. It was—you lot were supposed to be all done, now that you’ve run the folk out of their own home.”</p><p>Jacob glanced over at Isolde. Bundled up in thick fabrics, but still blushed from the cold, she looked quite small; for a woman clocking in at five-foot-eleven, he thought he’d never <em>seen</em> Isolde so swallowed-up, wallowing, <em>despondent. </em></p><p>“You got an opinion on that?” Jacob asked dryly.</p><p>“You know that I don’t,” she muttered. “Just wish you’d have left the bloody fucking mess behind before I got here, is all.”</p><p>“I know it might offend those delicate sensibilities—”</p><p>“I’m tired of talking now, Jacob, if you’d like to let me lament the loss of my tranquility in peace.”</p><p>It took a lot of self-control to <em>not</em> bite out a response. Naturally, talking and conversation were only convenient when Isolde herself had something to say. It seemed she really hadn’t changed all that much, had she? Maybe it was good that she was here, after all. When John had first mentioned over the phone that she was coming down, he’d pictured that she’d mostly be a hindrance—unnecessary drama, despite the fact that he knew she had every capacity to act professionally—but as of late, Joseph had been...</p><p>Well. Out of sorts. Perhaps a slap of a reality check would be good for him.</p><p>They drove deep into the Whitetails, far enough out that the radio reception crackled and disappeared, leaving them in silence. The clouds were swollen and gray with unshed snow; threatening, looming with the potential to dump, but not quite there yet. All the snow as of late had been a bit heavier than what he would have anticipated, even for Montana.</p><p>“So are you going to tell me who our mystery guest is?” Isolde asked after a while, once he was turning up the long, familiar drive to a house that didn’t belong to him.</p><p>He flicked the lights of the truck on as the tree-cover turned the dim, overcast light darker. “Name’s Arden.”</p><p>“Very helpful.”</p><p>“‘S a vet,” he continued. “Worked in Fall’s End. Couple of years.”</p><p>“Like the animal kind?” Isolde pressed.</p><p>“M<em>hm.</em>”</p><p>“Very fitting for your brood.”</p><p>“Ha-ha.”</p><p>Another stretch of silence, another turn up the drive, and then: “So?”</p><p>Jacob exhaled through his nose. It was either now, or later, and to be honest, he thought he might prefer delaying the inevitable over listening to Isolde complain, but he knew that he needed to just rip the bandaid off.</p><p>“She’s...” He searched for the word, shifting in the driver’s seat. “My...Partner.”</p><p>Isolde was silent for a moment, but he could <em>feel </em>her eyes on him—insistent. Impatient. Incredulous. A variety of other i-words that properly encapsulated whatever flurry of emotion she was feeling at that moment.</p><p>“As in—” Isolde stopped. “Romantic?”</p><p>“I guess,” he said.</p><p>“You <em>guess?” </em>She scoffed, but her voice was a bit lighter now, lifted by the curiosity. “Is she cute?”</p><p>Jacob stared ahead. That detail felt like it went without saying.</p><p>“Smart?” Sol prompted. “Funny? Makes you smile? Inspires in you the desire to procreate?”</p><p>“We have dogs,” he replied, “together.”</p><p>“Oh, if <em>that’s</em> all.”</p><p>He muttered, “This is <em>worse,”</em> under his breath, drawing her eyes back to him—as though she had ever stopped trying to pick him apart while this excruciating piece of conversation dragged on—and she cocked her head to the side.</p><p>“Worse than <em>what?”</em></p><p>“You complaining,” Jacob said plainly. “You can go back to that, if you want.”</p><p>Isolde purred, “No, I think I’ll stick with interrogation.”</p><p>He shot her a dry side-glance, lips pressing into a thin line. This wasn’t supposed to be how <em>this</em> went—this whole...Interaction. Introduction. He certainly never pictured that Isolde would have been the first person to meet Arden as his partner, and not Hope County’s veterinarian, but. Well.</p><p>Nothing to be done about it now.</p><p>He put the truck in park as soon as they’d pulled in front of a small, tidy cabin, far enough out that you’d have to know where to go to find it—it wasn’t something that would just be stumbled across. By now, the late afternoon had started to turn murky; what little overcast light had been making it through the boughs was nearly strangled now by the approaching nightfall.</p><p>“Stay,” Jacob said, leaving the keys in.</p><p>“Do not speak to me like a <em>dog, </em>Jacob.”</p><p>He turned his head to look at her, expression pulling tight. She sniffed.</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>He got out of the truck, slamming the driver’s side door and trudging through the snow—only half-shoveled—up to the front door. Through the window and the curtains, he saw the cut of amber light from the reading lamp he knew was by the door, the tangle of warm limbs barely kept under a knit throw blanket. It was a bit too comfortable, in there; too easy to remember the times he’d come to this house just like this, skim his hands under the blanket as he sank into that couch. The last few months had been a bit more demanding than he’d anticipated.</p><p>Just as he reached for the door, it swung open with a happy creak, and he was greeted by a familiar face. Just not the one he wanted.</p><p>“Well, if it isn’t the big man himself!” the dark-haired man greeted, chirping happily. “Good evening, captain. We were anticipating your arrival.”</p><p>“Santiago,” Jacob replied flatly. He gestured with one hand, an indication he was ready to come inside. Santiago flashed a charming grin and made a sweeping motion as he stepped to one side. It had been two months of having John’s favorite lapdog watching after Arden, and two months of hearing the Faithful’s <em>infuriating</em> voice over the radio every time he tried to touch base.</p><p>It was all easily forgotten, even as Santiago chattered in the background, saying something elaborate and useless as he made his way into the living room and spotted her; just like he’d glimpsed through the window, Arden was curled up on the couch, book in hand, reading lamp on and dogs asleep on the floor.</p><p>The beasts—glossy, long-haired Belgian Shepherds named Castor and Pollux—lifted their heads almost simultaneously, regarded Jacob, and then wagged tufted tails against the floor. They only looked at him for a second before their pointed snouts turned expectantly toward Arden.</p><p>She said something, quick and soft and foreign, and they leaped to their feet immediately to crowd him, large enough that their heads tilted to gaze at him reached past his hip bones even while they obediently remained on all-fours.</p><p>“Boys are sleeping on the job,” Jacob said gruffly as he gave them each two quick pets, lifting his gaze from the dogs to Arden. The corners of her mouth ticked upward, amused.</p><p>“They’re on break. State-mandated.” Her head tilted, loose curls framing her face where they’d fallen out of her bun. “Santi and I heard some chatter on the radio. Fifteen, huh?”</p><p>He grimaced, just for a second. His hands itched—to card through her hair, to tilt her face up—but he stayed where he was and instead watched as she came to a stand, tossing her book onto the couch. There were a lot of things that he thought about saying; questions beyond what their brief conversations had been, things that had been sitting on his mind.</p><p>
  <em>Are you happy? Are you happy with this world I’m preparing us for?</em>
</p><p>“I’m taking you to the compound,” is what he said instead.</p><p>Arden laughed, reaching up to cup his jaw. “I figured you wouldn’t be rolling up to my house near-dark after two months of forcing me to cohabitate with Santiago just for fun.”</p><p>“In preparation,” Santiago intoned dutifully from the kitchen, sounding like his mouth was full, “for our rapidly impending marriage, <em>cariña.”</em></p><p>“Enough,” Jacob interjected, “out of <em>you, </em>Vidal. Arden, is your stuff ready?”</p><p>“Yes, I packed.” She moved to the window, hoisting a bag off of the ground and glancing out through the glass. “Who’d you bring?”</p><p>Jacob took in a breath. Too much was going on, and not <em>enough</em> was happening in the way that he wanted it to. The stranger with a precise shot was still hungering in the back of his mind for his attention. When he’d dropped John’s little attack dog here two months ago, he’d intended his next stop-by to be taking Arden to the bunker. Elliot’s killing spree had only made that time longer, and <em>then</em> the Family had rolled into town, and <em>now—</em></p><p>Well, now he was tired of looking for reasons to delay bringing her home, and just needed the one to do so.</p><p>As Santiago began gathering his things—decidedly less ready than Arden was—he crossed the room to where she was, turning her face from the window and back toward him.</p><p>“Oh,” she said, pleasantly. “Hello.”</p><p>“You get whatever you want,” he murmured, “for putting up with that incessant chatter.”</p><p>“One thing? Or many things?”</p><p>“Negotiable.” He grimaced. “Depending.”</p><p>She flashed a smile, tilted her head, and kissed the palm of his hand. “Hm. Brave of you.”</p><p>“Dr. Hale,” he rumbled, voice pitching low, watching the way her lashes fluttered prettily and her chin tilted. Expectant.<em> But not yet, </em>Jacob thinks. <em>Not yet. </em>“Are you plotting to extort me?”</p><p>Arden’s chin tilted out of his grasp, and she squirmed out from between him and the window, slick as can be despite her height. The woman was all wiry muscle, quick and precise movements, nothing wasted and nothing tossed aside. “Perhaps,” she replied over her shoulder, “but it wouldn’t be plotting if I told you, now would it?”</p><p>“What’s the word for ‘here’?” Santi asked from the hallway. “You know, for the hounds?”</p><p>Arden’s attention turned back to the brunette, and she patted his shoulder. “If I told you what it was,” she said, “they wouldn’t be very effective protection dogs, would they?”</p><p>“I think you mean attack dogs.”</p><p>“Interchangeable,” she acquiesced. “Are you packed, Santi?”</p><p>He grinned, glancing at Jacob. “Is just stuff, no? I am not interested in the material.”</p><p>Her gaze flickered to Jacob, a look of, <em>oh, is that so?</em> before she told Santiago, “Well, out into the truck with you, then. Dogs.”</p><p>She didn’t say the command, but whistled, sending them racing out the door excitedly around Santiago. When he’d followed suit and Arden had turned the lights off in the house, making her own way to the front door, Jacob reached for her and snagged her hand to turn her back around.</p><p>A second passed. She waited expectantly.</p><p>“I haven’t told them,” Jacob said after a minute. Arden’s wrist slipped through his grip, catching at the base of her hand.</p><p>“About the fifteen dead men?” she asked. “Don’t you think that’s important?”</p><p>His eyes flickered over the shape of her face; in the dark, he could still pick out the planes of her cheekbones, the dip of her nose, the cupid’s bow of her lips. He’d traced just those things with his hands and mouth plenty of times before. “About you.”</p><p>Arden said, “Oh.”</p><p>Jacob waited for a second longer, but when he couldn’t pick out any emotion besides, perhaps, confusion on her face, he prompted, “Oh?”</p><p>“Well, I just don’t see how that’s pertinent right now,” Arden replied plainly. “People are getting killed.”</p><p>Per usual, even after over a year of being together, she somehow managed to completely unseat him. Trying not to sound frustrated, he elaborated, “I just thought you should know, Joseph and John and Faith don’t...”</p><p>Jacob felt his voice trail off; Arden tilted her head inquisitively, like she didn’t quite see the point in the conversation being dragged on. He <em>never</em> felt like he was dragging on a conversation, except with her—the woman trimmed the fat out of every interaction down to the barebones, if she could.</p><p>“They don’t know,” he finished. “Also, Isolde’s in the car. John’s old business partner.”</p><p>“Damage control,” Arden said.</p><p>“Damage control,” Jacob agreed.</p><p>The blonde gave his hand a quick squeeze, tugging him forward and, as though they hadn’t been apart for two months, as though he had not admitted to keeping her his very own special secret for this long, she kissed him. It was quick—a brush of their lips, fast and easy and not at all wanting, as though he’d never been gone at all—before she turned away and stepped out the door, waving in the headlights.</p><p>Jacob locked the door behind him, out of habit rather than necessity. As Arden loaded the dogs into the back and then her bag as well, he opened the back door of the truck to where Santiago had already climbed in.</p><p>“Hurry in, <em>guapa, </em>you’ll catch cold,” the brunette said, beckoning Arden in as though she weren’t in the process of climbing in already.</p><p>She smiled wryly, puffing the air out as she hoisted herself inside and kicked the snow off of her boots. “Thank you, Santi, for your concern.”</p><p>Jacob rolled his eyes, closing the door behind Arden and then settling himself back into the driver’s seat. There were about forty-five seconds of blissful silence as he navigated back down the driver before Santiago cleared his throat.</p><p>“So, Jacob, who is your friend?” he asked. His voice was sly, but Jacob stifled the urge to tell him to shut up. He’d probably go whining to John that he’d done Jacob a favor only to get bullied for it.</p><p>“This is Isolde,” Jacob said, gesturing at the woman in the passenger seat. “John’s <em>mommy.”</em></p><p>Santi let out a low, little whistle, and said wistfully, “Ah, I have always wanted to meet the woman who raised our John.”</p><p>Isolde’s expression twisted something vicious. “I’d kill myself if I had to bear that fucker in my womb.”</p><p>“You took care of him while he was in Atlanta,” Jacob pointed out. “Cleaned up his messes in the courtroom. Set him on the straight and narrow. Sounds like a mother to me.”</p><p>“Ugh,” was her reply. He knew the kinds of things that John had been up to in Atlanta—post-grad, the youngest brother had been in poor shape. Looking for fulfillment in all the wrong places. If Isolde hadn’t nipped that shit in the bud, who knew where John would have been when they’d rounded him up? He’d never heard John say anything more than he’d said <em>“I have to ask Isolde...”</em> back when they’d been going to school and working together, but he imagined that once they had opened the firm together, spending weekends high out of his fucking mind wasn’t much of an option anymore.</p><p>Not, at least, for someone who was going to be doing business with Isolde’s name attached. She was a tidy little control freak like that.</p><p>“Oh,” Arden said, her face lighting up with curiosity, “you’re <em>Joseph’s </em>Isolde too?”</p><p>
  <em>“Ugh.”</em>
</p><p>Jacob flashed Arden a grin through the rearview mirror, carefully turning the truck back onto a road that was more....Well, <em>road</em> than what they had been going on, not quite to the highway yet but close. He’d just have to get back to the compound. Get back to the compound, get Arden and Isolde settled in, and then <em>he</em> could go on the hunt.</p><p>It was becoming, unfortunately, more and more of a chore to keep things under control as time went on. Joseph wasn’t helping, and while John’s energy was not typically the “calm and efficient” kind, he at <em>least</em> had been propelled to take action. Of course, that action had ended up being more trouble than it was worth, and—</p><p>His brain was turning in circles, over and over again, a snake latched on to its own tail. It was almost deafening, to try and listen to Arden asking Isolde questions—what Joseph was like “back then”, about what it was like to work with John, how was her flight from Georgia—was she liking Montana? You know, aside from the killing and whatnot?—while his brain replayed the same loop. <em>Would be easier if John was here, </em>it said, <em>would be easier if John was here to cause more problems and then try to clean them up. At least someone would be <strong>doing</strong> something, right?</em></p><p>Get back to the compound. Get everyone settled. Then he could make a plan.</p><p>And boy, was he going to fucking need one.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>By the time they had gotten back to the compound, Isolde felt like she was in a pretty good mood. Pretty good, at least, for getting shot at and realizing you’d been duped by someone who shouldn’t have had the audacity to try and dupe you at all.</p><p>The fact of the matter was that John knew better—he knew better than to lie by omission to her, because she was always going to find out that he’d done it one way or another, and yet he’d done it anyway. Their time apart had made John bold in his disrespect of her, and that was something that just was going to have to get immediately remedied.</p><p>Well, as immediate as possible, given that she was in the middle of bumfuck-nowhere-Montana with only a lick of cell service.</p><p>“It’s been really fun,” Isolde announced, climbing out of the truck’s passenger side as everyone else disembarked. Santiago had swung around the back to let the dogs out and haul Arden’s bag out. “I’m going to go sit in my rudimentary shack and pretend like today didn’t happen.”</p><p>Santi flashed her a wide, toothy smile. “I have an alcoholic beverage that may assist in forgetting.”</p><p>“I bet that you do.”</p><p>“Sol,” Jacob said, drawing her attention to him; he tilted his head, indicating the chapel where she knew Joseph was likely waiting to hear back about the things they’d seen. She felt her shoulders shag.</p><p>“Don’t become my least favorite Seed.”</p><p>“He’ll want to know,” the redhead cautioned. “See for himself you’re fine.”</p><p>“I’m <em>not,”</em> she snapped, “<em>fine, </em>and if I’m being honest—”</p><p>“You always are, in my experience.”</p><p>“—the last person I want to be making feel good is your <em>brother.”</em></p><p>Jacob said, “I’m the one that’s going to suffer for it.”</p><p>Her lips pressed into a thin line. The eldest Seed shrugged his shoulders and started heading toward the chapel, nudging Arden ahead of him in a gesture that was both affectionate and protective; <em>that</em> was nearly the strangest thing to come out of the day. Aside from their newcomer trying to make their own live-action version of <em>The Most Dangerous Game.</em></p><p>“Fine!” Isolde relented at last, trudging after them. “I must be fucking insane, to keep helping you lot.” And then, as though to comfort herself: “You’d probably muck up the details, anyway.”</p><p>Jacob flashed her a smile over his shoulder. “Practically family at this point.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>fuck</em> off.”</p><p>The inside of the chapel was degrees warmer—so much so that Isolde hadn’t realized how cold she actually was until she was within range of the space heater rattling laboriously, the sound bouncing between the wood paneling of the walls and ceiling. Joseph was sitting on one of the benches a few rows back from the front, head bowed and cradled against the fold of his hands. A young blonde woman sat beside him, but rather than bent at the waist, her face was lifted, like she was drinking in whatever light and warmth she could get.</p><p>Suffused in the amber glow of candlelight from different little pockets around the chapel, he did strike a Renaissance-esque silhouette. <em>Faithful In Repose, </em>or something like that.</p><p>It wasn’t until Jacob said, a few feet away, “We’re back,” that Joseph’s head lifted and he came to a stand. His expression looked mutedly relieved—like perhaps he was trying to not appear <em>too</em> relieved.</p><p>“I was worried,” he sighed, reaching up to plant his hands on Jacob’s shoulders, “when I heard your radio call. We both were. Fifteen of ours, you say?”</p><p>“I think so, anyway,” Jacob replied, not moving to return the physical gesture but not brushing it off, either. “I’m going to go back out after I get Arden settled and get an actual headcount. Hopefully track down the person we saw.”</p><p>“Good,” Joseph murmured, and then paused, his gaze flickering to the honeyed blonde standing just behind Jacob. “Arden?”</p><p>“Hi,” she greeted, reaching around and offering her hand to Joseph. “Arden Hale.”</p><p>His gaze looked inquisitively to Jacob. It was excruciating for Isolde to watch it, the confusion on his face as he took Arden’s hand in his and said, “I remember you, from before, don’t I?”</p><p>“Probably,” she agreed with a little smile. “But only in passing. I ran the vet clinic.”</p><p>“That’s right!” the younger blonde exclaimed, her face lighting up. “<em>I </em>remember you for sure.” She paused. “I was Rachel, back when we met.”</p><p>“I remember you too, Faith.” Arden’s smile was light and friendly, despite the fact that she referred to what had been her livelihood in the <em>past tense</em> rather than present tense. It was a painful reminder that they had run the other people with livelihoods out of Hope County—and that it didn’t seem to bother or unsettle Arden at all was enough to make Isolde wonder.</p><p>“And you—?” Joseph paused, clearly trying to keep some kind of cool, calm, and collect as he muddled through a thing that his brother was offering no explanation on. “Jacob just, ah...Picked you up?”</p><p>“Yes,” Arden replied politely.</p><p>Joseph’s gaze darted back to Jacob. He waited a heartbeat for her to elaborate, and when she didn’t, he said, “I see.”</p><p>“Do you?” Isolde prompted, because maybe she was gleaning a bit of enjoyment out of seeing Joseph on the brink of squirming. She knew him well enough to tell he was furiously stuffing down a mounting frustration—Arden, quick and to the point and unwilling to waste time on elaborating something she probably thought wasn’t important, and Jacob, tight-lipped and ready to leave.</p><p><em>Now </em>she knew why Jacob hadn’t wanted to say anything. He’d been keeping Arden for himself, and now this stranger on the hunt had forced his hand.</p><p>“So,” Jacob said after a moment, “I’m going to get Arden settled. Sol, bunk with you?”</p><p>“Sure,” she replied, only managing to barely contain her delight at having figured out a dynamic in which Joseph was at a disadvantage. “I’d welcome the company of someone other than a Seed.”</p><p>“I’ll help,” the girl, who Arden had referred to as Faith, offered. “I could use a good stretch, and I can’t <em>wait</em> to catch up, Arden.”</p><p>Jacob made a low noise, something like <em>uh-huh</em> but more displeased, before he turned on his heel and started marching resolutely back to the door, Faith chatting excitedly with Arden as they followed.</p><p>Before he could reach the door, Joseph said, “Jacob?”</p><p>The redhead paused, turning to look back at them.</p><p>“When you have a minute,” he continued, “I’d like a word.”</p><p>Jacob’s mouth set into a firm line. He didn’t respond, but gave one short nod before he stepped outside and ushered Faith and Arden out ahead of him.</p><p>Isolde watched them go for one heartbeat before she began, “It’s refreshing to see you squirm, Joseph.”</p><p>“You always were a little spiteful,” Joseph agreed, his voice mild despite the barb in the words. Isolde’s gaze snapped back to him, head tilted in defiance.</p><p>“Don’t deny me my pleasures.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it.”</p><p>Another moment of silence passed, one where Joseph’s gaze took a leisurely journey over her—too leisurely to have been anything less than admiring—before he said, “I was worried, you know.”</p><p>“Well,” Sol replied tartly, “we <em>were</em> getting shot at.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t be leaving the compound,” he continued, his voice a bit firmer now, “not while we’re not sure that the Family isn’t still around. Jacob is capable...” Isolde waited for him to finish his thought, to tack on the contingency, but all he said was, “Enough, for himself.”</p><p>“I don’t think you have any grounds to be telling me to do anything.”</p><p>The words left her mouth coiled tight and unforgiving. Joseph had always been in the bad habit of that—<em>telling </em>her, rather than asking her or suggesting to her; as though his suggestions should be taken as gospel and phrased them as such. Even back then—</p><p>
  <em>I want you to marry me. I want you to be my wife, Soli.</em>
</p><p>—it had been a demand, not an ask. Not a request—but something that was almost enough to be a <em>command.</em></p><p>The man let out a small, short breath, looking at her for a moment in a way that was almost wary. <em>Good, </em>she thought, <em>you should be wary of me.</em></p><p>“I know,” he began, “that we didn’t leave things on the best of terms...”</p><p>His voice trailed off, like he intended to let her interrupt him. Isolde crossed her arms over her chest and waited expectantly.</p><p>“But I meant what I said.” Joseph fixed her with his eyes—infuriatingly blue, <em>disgustingly </em>blue. “That I’m happy you’re here.”</p><p>“And I meant what <em>I</em> said,” she replied tightly, “that you <em>should</em> be.”</p><p>Joseph sighed, “I don’t want to argue with you.”</p><p>“Then I don’t know why you opened your mouth in the first place—”</p><p><em>“Isolde,”</em> and now he <em>finally</em> sounded a little frustrated, the tone bleeding into his voice. “We have to be on the same side, if you’re going to be here.”</p><p>She knew what that meant. She knew that what he was saying was, <em>if you’re going to fight me at every turn, then there’s no reason for you to be here. </em>But he was wrong about that; it was all the <em>more</em> reason for her to be there, to keep him in check, because clearly, nobody else was. Even Jacob, who should have had every reason to want to share this apparent relationship he’d been having, had kept it a secret from Joseph. And what did that say about him? What did that say about the person he’d become?</p><p>“I thought of you often,” he continued, his voice pitching a little lower now, taking a step forward. “And the mistakes that I made. That we <em>both—”</em> Joseph paused, his eyes flickering down to her mouth for a split second before lifting back to meet her gaze. “—made.”</p><p><em>Don’t fucking do it, </em>she thought, watching him lift his hand to sweep the hair away from her shoulder in the affectionate gesture he had done so many times before then. If she let him, maybe he would follow up the way he had done so many times before all of this; he would have dragged his fingers along the pillar of her throat, pressed his mouth to the hollow under her jaw, <em>sweet girl, my Soli, so gorgeous,</em> and—</p><p>“Well, <em>I</em> didn’t,” Isolde replied, stepping away from him before his hand could make contact, before he could try and suck her back into the world that he’d had her in before. They were different now—she had known a Joseph before Eden’s Gate, and he had known an Isolde before Eden’s Gate, and all that had happened between was well and buried and done away with. “Think of you. At all.”</p><p>She focused on the door waiting for her, to take her out of the chapel and out of the romantic amber glow drenching the handsome features of Joseph’s face, to take her away from the cloying words. It couldn’t feel genuine coming from him, not right now. Not anymore.</p><p>“I don’t believe you,” is what he said, called after her just as she slammed the door behind her. “Not after the things I’ve done for you.”</p><p><em>The things I’ve done for you, </em>he said. <em>Fucker. </em></p><p>More like the things he’d done for himself.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>The house was quiet when they returned. Scarlet must have retired early this evening; those nights that he’d spent sleeping in his car just down the street, he’d seen the light on in the downstairs living room well into the night, but the clock was only barely cresting eleven.</p><p>As they walked inside, Boomer lifted his head from where he’d been sleeping on the floor, stretched out in front of the couch. The Heeler’s tail thumped against the floor a few times, and then a low growl pitched out of him upon first seeing John come through the door again—only to have it waved away and quieted by a gesture of Elliot’s hand.</p><p>“Elliot,” he started, closing and locking the front door behind him, “are you sure you don’t—”</p><p>“I <em>really—”</em> Elliot’s voice tightened, wobbling sharp and tense. “—<em>really</em> need you to shut the fuck up.”</p><p>John had become familiar with the way that she said things; the difference between a casual <em>shut the fuck up</em> and the cadence of this, <em>I need you to, </em>so close to the thing he wanted her to say the most but only available to him now if he dredged it up from his memories. So he did as she asked and closed his mouth, instead contenting himself with replaying that parsed little clip of her words over again in his head.</p><p><em>I need you. </em>He could fool himself, trick his brain into thinking as she hung the jacket up, the dips of her face shadowed by what little amber light was glowing from the one lamp left on in the living room. Just like she’d done it before—that night, before the scar. Before her lie. <em>John, I want you so badly, I need you, I need you John, </em>saying it against his mouth in a kiss and driving her nails into him like she wanted to leave a mark that wouldn’t fade, like she wanted him to think of her, always.</p><p><em>I do, </em>he thought absently, jostled out of his near-daydream when she brushed past him to head for the stairs, the hound trailing at her feet protectively. <em>Think of you, always.</em></p><p>“Could sleep in my bed,” he suggested, following a foot or two behind in case she decided to swing. “If you’re feeling out of sorts.”</p><p>“Is that what you think I’m <em>feeling,</em> John?” Elliot’s voice carried with it an idle kind of venom, the words barely above a whisper and tossed over her shoulder. It was a loaded question, of course. There was no right answer. In fact, it was more of a <em>threat </em>than anything. “I’m just <em>dying</em> to get some insight from the person who has clearly never read me wrong.”</p><p>He didn’t stop when she did; instead, he carried himself all the way to the landing that she paused at until there was hardly any space left between them, where he could still smell the wild winter blushing her cheeks and chilling her skin.</p><p>“I just remember,” he tried again, remaining casual, “you always seemed to sleep much better with a body next to you.” And then, pointedly: “A <em>live</em> one. Human and not dog-shaped.”</p><p>“Frankly, I don’t think you know a fucking thing about me,” the redhead snipped out.</p><p>“Well, we both know <em>that</em> isn’t true.” His eyes flickered over her; the urge to reach up and card his fingers through her hair, glide the pad of his thumb from her chin down into the hollow of her throat stung hard and bright in his chest, flowering with want. “I think we know each other quite intimately, you and I.”</p><p>“<em>Fucking</em>,” she hissed, “does not equate <em>intimacy.”</em></p><p>“But it did.” John felt his mouth tick up at the corner. “For you. For <em>us.”</em></p><p>Something vicious twisted her mouth. <em>I know you, </em>he wanted to say, but knew that he shouldn’t because it would only incense her further—he was having to straddle a <em>very </em>thin line. <em>I know you, Elliot Honeysett, and I know we were fucking made for each other and you’re going to see it, too. One way or another.</em></p><p>“I only,” he continued, reaching up slowly and waiting for her to balk, “wanted to offer it.”</p><p>She didn’t jerk away from his touch, but before he could tuck the coppery strand behind her ear she had leaned away from him, shrugging off the affection. For a moment, her lashes fluttered, her expression changing into something he almost didn’t recognize. It took him a second to realize that she was <em>considering, </em>that it wasn’t blatant rejection just vibrating under her skin but something else. The times that Elliot had wanted him the most had always been when she was looking for comfort, and the gentle tremor in her hands that she tried to bury into her crossed arms, the way she was making a concerted effort to keep her breathing steady—she wanted him, as she had before.</p><p>It was a tiny, tiny little thrill, only a degree closer to what he wanted, but it was there <em>nonetheless.</em></p><p>“No,” she said finally, doing that infuriating thing she did when she turned her eyes away from him—like she wanted to deprive him of her attention, her hand brushing his out of immediate reach of her. “I don’t want to sleep in your bed.”</p><p>“Alright,” he replied agreeably, even as every bone in his body <em>disagreed</em> with her decision. He stepped around her, heading up the stairs to the hallway that led to the guest bedroom. “But if you have a bad dream and want someone to hold you—”</p><p>“I won’t.”</p><p>“—you know where to find me,” John added playfully over his shoulder. Her footsteps drifted after him against the thick carpet, swallowed up by the high ceilings of the house.</p><p>“I hate you,” she bit out, her voice still soft so as not to rouse her mother.</p><p>John tried very hard not to smile. “I’ve told you once before, you need a catchphrase you can sound like you actually believe,” he told her. “That one just doesn’t hit the same anymore.”</p><p>She shot him a stormy, murderous look before brushing past him to reach the end of the hall where her bedroom was. Boomer darted ahead of her, eager to be in bed; John said, “<em>Goodnight, </em>Ell,” from the distance that kept them separated.</p><p>Elliot was halfway through the door to her bedroom when she said, “Eat shit, John.”</p><p>He shut the bedroom door behind him just enough to leave it cracked—Elliot still hadn’t come clean about the sleepwalking, but he still <em>knew</em>, and that meant he couldn’t have his wife and his unborn child traipsing around in the snow and potentially getting hypothermia while he was asleep.</p><p>It wasn’t until he’d undressed into more comfortable clothing that he crawled into the bed and realized how exhausted he really was; the adrenaline that had flooded his system at Elliot’s apparent panic had died out now, leaving him feeling hollowed out and a little empty.</p><p>John couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Weyfield wasn’t as good for Elliot as she had wanted, and though that meant she would suffer for now, it would make their return to Hope County all the better; for him, and for her.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>He tossed and turned for a few hours, and found himself dredged out of his state of half-asleep by the jarring sound of his phone going off. John glanced over at the nightstand where it was vibrating, dull and insistent, against the wood. With no numbers saved as contacts in his phone, it was almost impossible to tell who it was, which always made it a bit of an uneasy endeavor when it came to picking up an unknown call.</p><p>Sitting up in bed blearily, he reached over and hesitated for just a minute before he hit the accept call button, bringing it to his ear. “Hello?”</p><p><em>“Hi, Johnny.” </em>It was Isolde. Her voice sounded tight, uncomfortable. <em>“How’s Georgia? Hm? Everything good?”</em></p><p>He hesitated again, but for a different reason this time; Sol’s voice was heavily implying something was wrong, and John was not privy just yet to what it was that had put her on edge. “It’s good,” he said, climbing out of bed and wandering to glance out the window. The night outside was peaceful—or as peaceful as it <em>could</em> look, with the dark treeline looming in his vision and the swollen clouds threatening another downpouring of snow.</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah?”</em>
</p><p>“Yeah, it’s...progressing,” he ventured, still half-asleep and clearing his throat. “Slowly, but I think I—”</p><p>
  <em>“That’s good. That’s really, really good, honey. Hey, John? By the way, <strong>what the fuck is wrong with you</strong>?”</em>
</p><p>Ah. So she <em>was </em>mad.</p><p>John opened his mouth to respond when Isolde plunged on, her voice pitching in a reckless kind of vibration, <em>“I told you not to fucking lie to me. That means by omission.”</em></p><p>“Well, now—”</p><p>
  <em>“I came out here out of the kindness of my fucking heart, you asshole. I fucking—they should be calling me Mother Fucking Theresa for the shit I’ve done for you, and you have the audacity to not only neglect to tell me that you didn’t know for <strong>sure</strong> the cult was done with but that your <strong>wife</strong> doesn’t <strong>want you? </strong>You’re hunting this girl across states and she fucking turned you in to the <strong>goddamn government?”</strong></em>
</p><p>John grimaced. He was going to have to chat with Jacob and Joseph about how much information they were deciding to divulge with people. People, like Isolde, who didn’t need to know that his and Elliot’s relationship had ended on more than just “bad terms” and that the gap to heal it was actually much, much larger than perhaps he had implied.</p><p><em>“Also, can’t ignore the fact that you were <strong>in </strong>government custody at one point but your fucking cockroaches <strong>killed government officials</strong></em> <em>to get you out—”</em></p><p>He started, “Sol—”</p><p>
  <em>“No no no, do not fucking ‘Sol’ me, baby—I almost got fucking shot today. I watched someone hunt your fucking homeless population for sport and then make a very clear threat to do the same for me. And the worst part of it is that I’m not even that mad about that bloody bit, but—”</em>
</p><p>The sound of a door dragging against the carpet wobbled through the air, half-masked by his own closed door and the gentle <em>whirr</em> of the heater kicking on. He glanced blearily a the clock on the nightstand. It blinked <strong>3:27 AM</strong> at him, and as he walked to the door and peeked out into the hallway, he saw that Elliot was wandering down the stairs.</p><p>Sol chattered viciously in his ear, but he wasn’t hearing it anymore; Ell moved leisurely, a pace that was unhurried, swaying on her feet a little as she came to a stop at the front door of the house and wandering in pajama shorts and an over-sized sweatshirt.</p><p>“Hold on,” John said, interrupting Sol’s tirade. “Something’s—can you hold on a second? Something’s wrong.”</p><p>
  <em>“Oh? Yeah? Really? Something’s wrong? You fucking idiot—”</em>
</p><p>In her haze, Elliot tried to pull the door open. Her hand fumbled tiredly, clumsily with the lock, but the coordination needed to undo it just wasn’t there.</p><p>“I gotta go,” he murmured into the phone. “Listen, Sol, I’ll call you back in the morning—bye.”</p><p>Isolde’s indignation did not go unnoticed, but it did go unanswered as he hit the end call button and put the phone volume on mute, tossing it onto the bed as he made his way down the stairs. Elliot seemed to have given up trying to unlock the door and now tugged absently against the handle, staring out through the glass front; from the stairs, he could hear that she was whispering something, but not <em>what</em> it was.</p><p>“Ell?” John whispered, coming closer. He wasn’t supposed to wake a sleepwalker, right? Gently, he reached up to try and disengage her hand from the curved door handle. Her voice was still so soft that he almost couldn’t hear what was she whispering, but —</p><p>“...can’t,” Elliot was saying, to the glass—to the door—to <em>someone </em>or <em>something</em> on the other side of it. “Can’t let you in.”</p><p>“Baby,” he said, uncurling her fingers from around the curve of cool metal, “come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”</p><p>Her head snapped, mechanical and machine-like, to fix her gaze on him; the movement almost made him jump it was so precise, like she had just only realized he was there beside her. Though her eyes were open, they were glassy and drifted absently, never once staying in one spot for very long but never straying very far from his face.</p><p>“She keeps asking,” Ell told him, letting him take her hand away from the door and blinking, her brows pinching together at the center of her forehead. “She keeps asking me to let her in. She misses me.”</p><p>“Who?” He didn’t know that he really wanted to know the answer to the question, but it came out of him anyway—maybe the morbid curiosity of wanting to know what it was she saw in her dreams when she did this sort of thing, and maybe because he’d never been the type of person who could leave a door unopened.</p><p>As he guided her carefully to the stairs, their progress halting and uneasy, Elliot said pleasantly, “I told Joey I can’t let her in.”</p><p>He felt his skin prickle, dread crawling up his spine. He knew it. He <em>knew</em> he didn’t want to know the answer and he’d asked anyway, and now John would have to go to sleep with the knowledge that at least in her dreams, Elliot was seeing her dead best friend. Outside of her house.</p><p>“But I don’t want to,” the redhead continued. “She keeps asking me, but I don’t want to. She doesn’t have a face.”</p><p>His stomach churned violently. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmured, helping her up the stairs and to the guest room, pulling the blankets aside. His phone blinked with several missed calls from the same number—likely Isolde, raging mad he’d hung up on her. “Easy now, Ell.”</p><p>“She’s waiting for me,” Elliot whispered, like she was sharing a secret with him, her voice bridging mournful and gutted. “Joey’s waiting for me. She’s waiting outside. I have to let her in, or she won’t let me sleep.”</p><p>He pulled the blankets aside, trying to brush off the dread that really hit him the second he heard Elliot say <em>she won’t let me sleep.</em> Once she was laying down in the bed, her lashes fluttered unsteadily, her hand gripping John’s loosely.</p><p>Out from the hallway, he heard a low whine. Boomer had stirred at the sound of their hushed voices and now stood in the doorway of the bedroom; when John turned and looked at him, the Heeler let out a low growl, threatening.</p><p>“Well, come on,” John whispered impatiently at the dog, “if you’re going to come in.”</p><p>Boomer turned his head. It was the most effective side-eye he’d seen a dog perform in a long time.</p><p>“I have to,” Elliot whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears now. “I’m so tired, and she won’t let me sleep.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” he told her, even though his stomach wrenched a little at her words again, this eerie mantra that insisted on coming out of her now. “You can sleep.”</p><p>A little paranoid, he glanced towards the window—but it was empty, devoid of looming corpses or monsters peeking furred faces in through the panes. <em>Don’t be stupid, </em>he thought to himself, moving to the window and reaching for the curtains. <em>Nothing out there. Just Elliot having bad dreams.</em></p><p>He gave the forest, bathed in cold moonlight diffused and filtered through the cloud cover, a final glance over. And for one split second, he was <em>sure</em> he saw something move, scrambling up a tree and shaking the pine boughs in a flash of pale limbs and bony protrusions and—</p><p>The dread returned. Cold, trickling down his spine like an IV drip. <em>Just an animal, </em>he told himself, as though the movement did not look like some two-legged humanoid monster scaling the side of a tree with the ease of a spider. <em>Just an animal.</em></p><p>“Come on, beastie, we haven’t got all night,” he said, drawing the curtains closed firmly and waving at Boomer. The dog seemed appeased by this and came in, immediately hopping up to curl roll-shaped in the crook of Elliot’s knees. With the bedroom door shut and the curtains drawn, and Elliot having drifted back to sleep, the room finally felt <em>quiet</em> again.</p><p>John slid into bed pulling the blanket up and exhaling a breath.</p><p>
  <em>She doesn’t have a face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She’s waiting for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She won’t let me sleep.</em>
</p><p>Troubling, that she was seeing these things in her sleep. That she was seeing dogs with human faces. That she was seeing <em>anything at all. </em>It was almost the same as when she’d been drugged up to the gills by the Family and their weird earthy drug—not unlike Bliss, but with some more uncomfortable properties to it.</p><p>It wasn’t possible that she was still being affected by it, was it? This far away from Hope County, this long after she’d been experiencing the actual active effects of the drug they’d been plying her with?</p><p>Beside him, Elliot stirred, shifting until she’d rolled over to face him. Beneath her eyelids, in the dark, he could see her eyes move restlessly; still dreaming, even now, even after all of that.</p><p><em>What’s going on in that brain of yours? </em>He thought absently, reaching up and brushing a strand of hair from her face as she slept.</p><p>
  <em>What aren’t you telling me?</em>
</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>When Elliot awoke the next morning, it was in a foreign bed.</p><p>She didn’t realize it, not right away; the first thing that struck her as odd was that a familiar smell washed over her, one that broke through the haze of slumber just a little, just enough to make her stir. It was like a memory—was she dreaming? Was she in a dream?</p><p><em>Stop squirming, </em>breathed against the nape of her neck, the comfortable weight of an arm over her, locking her in place. <em>I’m trying to sleep.</em></p><p>“Wh—?” Elliot felt the noise, garbled with a sudden surge of panic, muddle in her mouth viciously as she lurched into a sitting position. Her head swam; her stomach rolled with unspent nausea (yet one more reminder of her poor decision-making); but when she moved, so too did Boomer, leaping off of the bed and instantly alert.</p><p>And so did another body next to her.</p><p>She swung blindly at first, a knee-jerk reaction, and only barely registered that it was John in the bed with her, having caught her wrist and stopped her from clotheslining him straight in the trachea.</p><p>“Easy, Elliot!” he exclaimed, his voice hoarse from sleep.</p><p>“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she demanded, yanking her hand out of his grip. “How did—when did I—”</p><p>“Take a breath,” John cautioned, and instantly that hyper-awareness and panic was laser-focused, pin-pointed on the one thing that managed to be a tangible bane of her existence.</p><p>“<em>Fuck you?” </em>she said, incredulously. “Explain to me how I ended up in your fucking—"</p><p>“Elliot, you were sleepwalking,” he snipped. “I caught you trying to walk outside.”</p><p>She blinked at him, trying to process his words through a haze of blood rushing through her head and alarm bells sounding off rapidly. It was getting, she thought somewhere in the back of her mind, harder and harder to turn them off—to convince her brain that she wasn’t in immediate danger anymore, when she had identified a situation properly.</p><p><em>John is a threat?</em> her muddled brain tried to parse through as she took in the scars and tattoos she had traced before—</p><p>(<em>with her fingers with her mouth, while he knotted his fingers in her hair and sighed, please Ell please I’ll give you anything I’ll do anything</em>)</p><p>—committed to memory.</p><p><em>Not a threat,</em> she affirmed after a moment, lifting her eyes to his. <em>Not a threat in the least.</em></p><p>“Okay?” he asked her, brows lifted. “Are we okay?”</p><p>“Why didn’t you just put me back in my bed?” she gritted out. “If you caught me sleepwalking.”</p><p>“And risk the beast ripping my hands off for coming into his territory? No, thanks.”</p><p>“Seems fine now.”</p><p>“Well,” John relented, “I invited him in.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. Pushing the blankets off of her legs, Elliot passed her hands over her face, willing the alarm bells off. <em>Red alert! Red alert! </em>they screamed, over and over; <em>we’re in danger, dig your heels in and sink your teeth in and tear tear tear—</em></p><p>The sound of the sheets rustling forced its way through the warning bells behind her just before John said, “You were talking too, last night.”</p><p>Elliot stopped, turning to look at him over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I suppose I said something like, ‘<em>oh, John, I take it all back, please let me love you, I promise I’ll be the perfect cult wife’—”</em></p><p>The brunette lifted his hands in defense. “As ideal as that would have been, that was not the case.”</p><p>And then he didn’t say anything. John Seed, who could not possibly have learned how to shut the fuck up overnight, was regarding her <em>very</em> carefully—gauging her, getting a feel for what was going on in her brain. She felt her molars grind.</p><p>“Well, spit it out, then.”</p><p>John’s mouth twisted for a moment. “You told me you were trying to let Joey in,” he said finally. “That she kept asking you to let her in, but you couldn’t. And—”</p><p>A new wave of nausea washed over her. She didn’t think that was true. She didn’t that she had been dreaming about Joey. Had she? No, she would remember if—</p><p>(<em>Joey, dirt packed under her nails and the flower blooms spilling out of the cavern of her chest, shaking the door, shaking it shaking it she won’t stop and she’s screaming even though she doesn’t have a mouth, even though her eyes and nose are smoothed out from her face, begging, begging to be let in, please let me in let me in letmeinletme—</em>)</p><p>“—said she didn’t have a face,” he continued,</p><p>(<em>LETMEIN</em>)</p><p>“—and she wouldn’t let you sleep—”</p><p>(<em><strong>L E T M E I N</strong></em>)</p><p>“Um,” Elliot said, feeling faint as her brain dutifully trudged up the nightmarish dream sequence once again. “I don’t—um, I don’t think—”</p><p>John’s hand went to her shoulder, squeezing there at the junction between her shoulder and neck; instinctively, her hand flew up, gripping his wrist on a mechanical instinct to dig her nails in and rip his hand off of her.</p><p>He stayed firm—watching her, watching her reaction, brows furrowing. <em>We like this, </em>a part of her said, when his fingers splayed warm and calloused against the side of her neck, when her pulse jumped under the touch and the fog cleared a little. <em>We remember this, and we like it.</em></p><p>“You said you were sleeping fine, Ell,” he murmured, his voice low as though not to spook her.</p><p><em>I know, </em>she thought, feeling her lashes flutter as the urge to puke reared its head. <em>I know what I said, I know what I fucking said, I know what I did, I’m not sleeping fine, I can’t remember when I slept fine, I can’t fucking sleep</em>—</p><p>“I told you before.” The pad of his thumb swept down the front of her throat, close to the hollow just there; any lower and he’d be touching his handiwork. It was almost comforting, that he knew, that he was intimately familiar. “I’ll give you anything you want. Especially if it means helping you sleep at night.”</p><p>She knew that he meant it.</p><p>“I want,” she breathed, watching John’s eyes light up, “to punch you in the face so <em>fucking</em> bad.”</p><p>John sucked his teeth and regarded her ruefully. “Had me for a minute,” he told her. “Thought you were going to stop being so obtuse.”</p><p>“Disappointed?”</p><p>“A little, admittedly.”</p><p>“It’s good for you. Builds character.”</p><p>“You can’t be sleepwalking out of the house, barefoot, in the winter and pregnant,” he said, more firmly.</p><p>Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, yeah?”</p><p>“Yes, <em>Elliot.”</em></p><p>“No fucking shit? You’re <em>sooo</em> smart, John. Think maybe later, if you have time, you could explain to me how day and night works?” And now she <em>did </em>push his hand off of her—enough familiarity for one morning—and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I have to shower and get ready.”</p><p>A frown planted itself on his face. “Ready for what?”</p><p>“Going to the stables,” she replied, opening the door and letting Boomer out into the hallway.</p><p>“I’ll come, too.”</p><p>Elliot stopped, blinking at him. “Sorry?”</p><p>“I said,” John began, having gotten out of bed and begun pulling his jeans on, “I’ll come too.”</p><p>“As much as I love the idea of you getting the shit kicked out of you by a horse—”</p><p>She cut herself off. The brunette raised a brow inquisitively—frustratingly distracting shirtless and standing there like he wasn’t the World’s Worst—and she shut her mouth promptly.</p><p>Taking John to the stables meant putting him out of his element. It also meant putting him directly in Sylvia’s path—and if there was someone who seemed almost as unimpressed with John as her mother, it was her new friend. She'd never seen him squirm as much as she had when Sylvia had clapped him on the back and said, <em>jury's still out, but don't worry, bud!</em> Like he'd never before had a woman not fall over herself for his attention.</p><p>“You know what?” She felt a smile tick the corner of her mouth. Even amidst the morning sickness riling in her stomach and the exhaustion from feeling like she hadn’t slept a wink, it still felt a <em>little</em> good. “Sure. You can come to the stables with me.”</p><p>Now it was <em>his</em> turn to narrow his eyes. He had one arm into a button-up when he stopped moving. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Elliot replied pleasantly. “But you’ve gotta do something. You can’t stand in the way. Be useful.”</p><p>“I can be useful,” he ventured. “It’s—what? Horses?”</p><p>“Yes, John, it is <em>horses.”</em></p><p>“Great. Love them. Love horses. <em>Very</em> cool.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.” She eyed him, taking two steps out of the bedroom and then turning around. “And John?”</p><p>He let out puff of air, head tilting as he looked at her, having shrugged the other half of the shirt on. “Yes, Elliot?”</p><p>Elliot gave him a once-over, grimacing.</p><p>“Maybe don’t wear the Versace to the barn.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. a little death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“CHORUS: And the grace of the gods (I’m pretty sure) is a grace that comes by violence.”<br/>— Aeschylus, Agamemnon (tr. Anne Carson)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi folks! we've got another big'un, a little more john/elliot centric with some plot threads starting to weave together. i'm really excited with where things are going and how things are shaping up, and i hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as i enjoyed writing it!</p><p>special thank you to @shallow-gravy for lending me her eyeballs to proof this chapter &lt;3 dani and sylvia both are characters of @starcrier's beautiful talented mind and she was kind of enough to help me fill out the cast for the world i'm working on!</p><p>as always, thank you so much to everyone who reads/comments/kudoses/likes; whatever your form of support is, it really means the absolute most to me and it's the whole reason i keep going!</p><p>warnings for this chapter include: gore! lots of gore! descriptions of canon-typical (and maybe not so canon) violence. it's a kill floor, what can i say. other than that there's like .0000003 seconds of john being a fucker but that happens all the time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Well, well, well, Mr. Seed!”</p><p>It was Sylvia’s cheerful voice that first put a smile on Elliot’s face. It was the ensuing expression on <em>John’s</em> face when he realized he’d have to slide into boots worn by at least twenty other people that kept it there. He grimaced as he set his own perfectly tidy shoes to the side and pulled the first Wellington on.</p><p>John had done the right thing by swapping out the collared shirt he’d been halfway through putting on into a black turtleneck—still, certainly, more expensive than perhaps any item of clothing Elliot herself had ever owned, but less pretentious than a silky button-up.</p><p>“Right size?” Via asked.</p><p>He forced the grimace into a smile. “Perfect fit.”</p><p>With a satisfied nod, the blonde turned back to Elliot and handed her the lead to the horse she was going to brush—a hefty Clydesdale that plodded out of his stall obediently. He nosed her pockets for treats, whuffling against her offered but empty palm before she started tying him to keep him in place for a good brushing.</p><p>“You look fit as a fiddle and ready to ride,” Via announced, clapping John on the shoulder once he’d gotten his shoes swapped out. “What do you think? Wanna climb on up?”</p><p>“On <em>that?”</em> John asked incredulously when the blonde indicated the bay.</p><p>“Yes sir. Hugo’s great for beginners.”</p><p>“Hugo’d be great to stomp me to death,” he muttered. “Ah, no thank you, Sylvia—I think I’ll stick with the ground for now.”</p><p>“Suit yourself.”</p><p>She gave Elliot’s shoulder a quick squeeze before setting off at a brisk pace. At the barn, Via always seemed to operate on a different kind of frequency—she was still quick to smile and quicker to laugh, but there was definitely something more businesslike going on. John watched her go for a minute, mouth downturned in a frown, before his gaze returned to Elliot.</p><p>“So,” he said, “what are we doing?”</p><p>“<em>I’m</em> brushing Hugo,” she replied primly. “You can...give him a treat, or something.”</p><p>“I thought you wanted me to <em>do </em>something?”</p><p>Elliot sighed, patting Hugo’s neck and giving him a scratch. The bay turned his head, regarding John for a moment before bumping his muzzle against her hip affectionately.</p><p>“Here,” she said, holding out a brush. “You can <em>brush</em> him.”</p><p>It was John’s turn to do the regarding, then, eyes darting down to the brush and then back up at Elliot. He did still look a bit ridiculous—walking around in the Wellingtons, brushing loose wisps of hay that had somehow managed to cling to his turtleneck, the normally perfectly-slicked back hair falling loose and unruly. As John weighed the brush in his hand like it was some kind of artifact, he gave Hugo an awkward pat on the nose and one stilted brush along his neck.</p><p>“Great,” Elliot chirped. “Just keep doing that, but...better.”</p><p>She stepped away, leaving John with the horse and heading down the main hall. She’d taken about five steps before she heard John go, “Wait, where are you going?” and she turned to look at him, brows pulling together in something close to pity.</p><p>He looked <em>so</em> uncomfortable. And it was <em>so</em> good.</p><p>“To brush another horse, <em>honey,”</em> she replied, voice dripping with sugar. “What, did you think we were going to hold hands while you made yourself useful?”</p><p>John’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve gotten mouthy,” he said, eyes on her as she clipped a lead onto her usual equine companion, a handsome palomino named Butterscotch.</p><p>“I’ve always been mouthy, John.”</p><p>“I suppose you’re right.”</p><p>A few minutes of silence lapsed between them, filled only by the occasional whuff of horse breath or John muttering a swear. Elliot had just gotten into the rhythm with the palomino, gliding her hands and the brush across his neck in slow, even strokes, when John said, “So, you’ve been coming here a lot then, huh?”</p><p>Elliot let out a sigh. “This is supposed to be my quiet time.”</p><p>“I’m just curious,” John replied. “What made you want to start spending time around big, smelly animals?”</p><p>She dropped the brush in a bucket, fishing out the comb and starting to work on some of the knots. “Doctor’s orders.”</p><p>John made a low noise, agreeable even though she thought that he might be <em>burning</em> over there. Back in Hope County, he’d been determined to know her—get inside of her, get in the nitty-gritty, dig his elbows up into her guts and gore and figure out every little thing about her and what it was that she was keeping from him.</p><p>It made her wonder if he had read the file Joseph had compiled on her. It had been given to him, after all, like a trophy. Like <em>she </em>was a trophy, a gift from Joseph to him. His <em>reward.</em></p><p>The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. Maybe that <em>is</em> what John thought; that all of his ragged attempts at convincing her that what they’d had, those fleeting moments, had been love. But she’d seen the way he’d looked when Joseph had praised him, the way he tiptoed around himself and his true nature, always with a foot on Joseph’s side and one on hers. Now, watching him stand awkwardly to the side of a giant Clydesdale, making an attempt at integrating into her daily life—it was almost sickening, to think that she had been the prize in some weird game for Joseph’s approval.</p><p>“Left him all alone with Hugo, huh?” Sylvia asked, jarring her out of her thoughts and reminding her that she’d been brushing the same spot in the palomino’s mane for a while now.</p><p>“Ah, yeah,” Elliot replied, clearing her throat and focusing on a different spot. <em>You make me sick, </em>she wanted to tell him, the warmth of the morning evaporating in the wake of her anger. <em>You make me fucking sick, I won’t forget it, I can’t forget it, fuck you fuck you. </em>“He could squirm a little. Builds character.”</p><p>Via’s eyes narrowed playfully, squinting at John as he gave the bay a hearty pat on the neck. “Not an animal person, huh?”</p><p>She felt her mouth twist wryly, wanting to say something vicious. Something mean. Something—</p><p>
  <em>( I’m glad I didn’t <strong>break</strong> that wrathful streak out of you, )</em>
</p><p>“City boy,” is what she ended up supplying, to which Via went <em>ahh, </em>as though that explained a lot. In a lot of ways, it did.</p><p>“How’re you holdin’ up over there, buddy?” the blonde called down the hall, Hugo’s ears flicking in her direction. John glanced up and planted a smile on his face that was so canned Elliot thought he couldn’t have seemed like he meant it <em>any</em> less.</p><p>“Fine,” John said, like he was on automatic, and then quickly added, “Great, actually. We’re bonding, Hugo and I. The two of us.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Via’s head tilted. “That’s nice to hear.”</p><p>“Yes. A pair, he and I.”</p><p>“Good,” she replied cheerfully. “You can take him on a walk then.”</p><p>“Huh?” came the intelligent reply, followed by the unceremonious drop of the brush in the nearby bucket. “What?”</p><p>“Take him out, stretch his legs a little,” Via explained, her voice warm. “He’s a nice boy, you two are pals. Should go fine.”</p><p>John grimaced. “I don’t know how to do that.”</p><p>Elliot had to swallow back a laugh when Via asked, “You don’t know how to walk?”</p><p>The brunette sucked his teeth. A little smile was on his face, but it was the same kind of smile he’d given Elliot when she said something particularly mean-spirited—and though Sylvia West was clearly not a mean-spirited person, she had yet to find John very charming at all. Jury was still out, after all. Elliot was <em>sure</em> that bothered him.</p><p>“I’ll show you,” Elliot sighed, after a few seconds of Via waiting patiently for John to explain himself. “Just unclip the—”</p><p>“Don’t stress it, Freckles,” Via interjected gently. <em>“You’re</em> busy with Butterscotch. I’ll help John.”</p><p>She hesitated, feeling a sudden jolt of panic. Via was saying, <em>take care of yourself.</em> She was saying, <em>put yourself first. </em>She was saying, <em>you don’t have to jump to do the stuff all the time. </em>But it had been so long—so long of trying to prioritize herself and choosing other people.</p><p><em>You don’t have to Atlas this thing yourself, deputy, </em>Jerome had said, like she wanted to let someone else handle it, like she wanted to be alone with herself.</p><p>But before Elliot could convince herself that it was more important that <em>she</em> show John how to do something fairly self-explanatory, before she could protest that Via was too busy, the blonde picked up the brush, put it back in her hand and crossed the hall to John with great purpose.</p><p>“Don’t worry, bud, I’ll make sure you don’t get trampled,” Sylvia chirped at John, unclipping the lead from the hook in the wall and setting it in his hand.</p><p>“Thanks, Sylvia.”</p><p>“No sweat, that’s what they pay me the big bucks for.”</p><p>“Lot of money, having people walk horses around?”</p><p>She flashed a smile that was all teeth. <em>“Tons.</em> I fill my pool up with hundred-dollar bills just for fun. Swim around in it and everythin’.”</p><p>John’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. He glanced back at Elliot, their eyes meeting for a moment—and maybe it did make her regret, a little, all of the poison she’d been thinking about him; maybe seeing him standing there and jesting with Sylvia and giving her that boyish smile made her regret thinking about how much she hated that he wanted to <em>know</em> her, all of her, all of the yucky, nasty bits of her that she wished didn’t exist.</p><p>Watching him walk out the front of the barn in the rubber boots, Hugo plodding along amicably behind him while Sylvia chattered, made Elliot wonder what it would have been like if he’d kept his word; if he’d meant it when he’d said that they would leave Hope County. There had been a time where she’d thought maybe she and John <em>were</em> meant for each other like he’d claimed. There had been a time where she’d thought maybe she didn’t want anyone else, maybe she wanted someone who kissed her when she was still covered in another man’s blood, who didn’t mind when her fingers itched and burned for acts of violence.</p><p>
  <em>Yours must surely be the sin of Wrath.</em>
</p><p>Maybe he was right. Maybe he was <em>it</em> for her, Elliot thought while John and Sylvia walked the Clydesdale in a big loop around the snowy parking lot. Maybe she never <em>would</em> find someone who loved her, all of her grit and gore and venom, the way that John did.</p><p>The way that he’d looked at her scar, then a wound, with adoration, his hands red with her blood. The way he’d said, <em>It’s going to look so good on you.</em></p><p>“That’s okay,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone, feeling the palomino’s velvety muzzle bump her hand impatiently for her attention. “I’m—”</p><p>Not <em>‘I’m’</em>. It wasn’t ‘<em>I’m</em>’ anymore. <em>It’s not just about you, anymore.</em></p><p>“We’re,” Elliot amended, swallowing thickly, “just fine being alone.”</p><p>If she said it enough times, maybe she would learn to believe it.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>“You really never walked a horse before, huh?”</p><p>John glanced up, his gaze darting to the blonde that had been walking alongside him as they circled the parking lot. This is <em>not</em> what he wanted to be doing. When he’d said he was coming with Elliot to the barn, what he’d anticipated had been something closer to getting<em> time</em> with her—out of the house, away from the dog and her mother, and in a situation that was more comfortable for her. She clearly liked coming here, or she wouldn’t have strongly considered objecting to his tagging along.</p><p><em>Hm, </em>something inside of him said, <em>doesn’t that say something, that she doesn’t want you in a place she feels happy and safe?</em></p><p>No. Not really. Not in the least.</p><p>“I haven’t,” John replied after a moment, realizing that Sylvia was waiting very patiently for his answer, without rushing or prompting him. That was probably why Elliot liked her. “It’s funny, I grew up in Georgia and never seemed to be around a horse my entire life.”</p><p>“That <em>is</em> funny,” Sylvia agreed, without laughing or cracking much more than a polite smile.</p><p>His eyes narrowed. He pushed a smile onto his face, the rope hung loosely in his hand as Hugo trailed along beside him, content to brush at the ground with his nose once in a while. John thought, <em>there’s got to be a way to figure you out. There’s got to be something. What did Elliot say to you about me, Sylvia? What did she tell you that’s making you this obstinate?</em></p><p>Just as John opened his mouth to say something, the blonde said, “You know, I don’t like you much, Mr. Seed.”</p><p>He closed his mouth, stopping at the far end of the parking lot. Sylvia turned to look at him, her gaze scrutinizing, her arms crossed over her chest.</p><p>“Well,” he said after a moment, “I don’t know what I did to disenchant you, Sylvia, but—”</p><p>“I spend a lot of time with troubled people,” she interjected, and <em>infuriatingly</em> she did it so kindly that it almost lost its insulting edge.</p><p>Swallowing, John’s brain scrambled rapidly, looking for some kind of footing before he began as amenably as possible, “I hear equine therapy is beneficial to plenty of people—”</p><p>“Doctors and therapists send folks here all the time to try and get some kinda relief. I don’t always know what it is, but I’ll tell you one thing: that girl in there—she came in looking more haunted than a cemetery, and the way she looked when I first saw her is the same way she looked when I caught y’all on the street.”</p><p>The polite smile dropped from her face. “I don’t <em>like</em> that she got that look back.”</p><p>John bit back his venom and said, “To be frank, you don’t know anything about our relationship.”</p><p>“You’re right, I don’t,” Sylvia replied lightly. She turned to him, and reiterated with pointed firmness, “All the same, I <em>don’t</em> like it, and I don’t like <em>you, </em>John Seed.”</p><p>“You’re awful polite,” he said tartly, “for a woman who doesn’t <em>like</em> me.”</p><p>Sylvia sucked her teeth in a gesture that was reminiscent of going <em>come on, </em>shaking her head again and huffing out a sigh. “You strike me as a man that hasn’t <em>ever</em> been just plain old disliked before,” she said, planting a hand on his shoulder even though he easily had two or three inches on her. “Just because I don’t <em>like</em> you doesn’t mean I think you’re <em>hopeless,</em> John. Jesus Christ, people been givin’ up on you that fast, huh?”</p><p>John blinked rapidly. <em>That</em> was not the answer he had anticipated. The words rattled around in his head, clanging painfully loud, foreign and unfamiliar and <em>scary</em> in how it felt to have someone, Sylvia, look at him and say, <em>people been givin’ up on you that fast?</em></p><p>Mentally scrabbling, he brushed her hand from his shoulder and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m perfectly <em>fine. </em>I just don’t understand putting yourself through the trouble of being nice to someone if you don’t like them, that’s all.”</p><p>“People can change,” Sylvia told him plainly. “After all, you said you’ve never been around a horse before, right?”</p><p>“Well—”</p><p>“And now here you are, walking a horse around an empty parking lot in Nowhere, Georgia. I’d say that’s changing, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>John snapped his mouth shut. There was something unsettling about the way Sylvia was looking at him; like she was seeing him, really, right then and there, after knowing her for so little time. It was the same—</p><p>It was the same way Joseph looked at people. <em>Seeing them, </em>for exactly as they were, with everything they brought to the table. So why did it feel different when Sylvia looked at him? Why did it feel different from Joseph when she looked at him and said, <em>I’d say that’s changing, wouldn’t you?</em> Why did it feel more <em>real?</em></p><p>“You’d probably best head back in,” Sylvia continued after a minute, smiling at him brightly. “Hugo’s an old man, he doesn’t like to be out that long. Much rather prefer to be inside and warm.”</p><p>“Yeah,” John said after a moment, pressing his lips into a thin line. “I’d better.”</p><p>He didn’t like this, not at all. He <em>especially </em>didn’t like the feeling of Sylvia, a woman who blatantly did not like him, <em>seeing him.</em></p><p>Turning, John started back across the parking lot to the barn, the hefty Clydesdale trailing obediently behind. It wasn’t until he was nearly to the doorway that he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket; pulling it out with his free hand, John brought the horse to a stop and lifted the phone to his ear.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>
  <em>“Hello, John.”</em>
</p><p>It was Joseph. <em>Speak of the devil, </em>something in him whispered as he glanced back over his shoulder at Sylvia beginning to trek down into one of the riding yards.</p><p>“Joseph,” John said, clearing his throat, “I’m so happy you called.”</p><p><em>“How are things going?” </em>His brother’s voice maintained its typical serenity, but there was a strange idleness to it, like he wasn’t fully invested in their conversation. It was unlike him, to sound like this—to sound <em>absent, </em>or troubled.</p><p>“They’re good,” he began cautiously. He wondered if Isolde had told Joseph about him hanging up on her. It would be just like her. “Really good. There was a doctor’s appointment yesterday—” <em>That Elliot didn’t let me go to, </em>he thought, as Joseph made an agreeable noise to show he was listening, “—and the baby is healthy. Really healthy, and good, and next week we’re going to find out the gender. Elliot’s been going to these stables because the doctor thinks it’s good for her stress—”</p><p>Joseph’s voice cut in over him, sharp and impatient. <em>“Do you know what’s going to be really good for the deputy’s stress?”</em></p><p>He shifted on his feet. “It’s just, she’s been talking to the doctor about it—”</p><p>
  <em>“There will be bombs dropping, John.”</em>
</p><p>“I—<em>know</em> that,” he replied quickly, glancing back at the barn and seeing Elliot dusting her hands off on the top of her jeans, having put the palomino away. “I know that, Joseph, I promise, I—”</p><p><em>“There will be no baby to be worried about,”</em> his brother continued, <em>“if you and our sister are not here when they fall on us.”</em></p><p>Joseph bit the word out, <em>sister,</em> like it was a cyanide pill crushed between his canines. Just hearing his brother’s voice change like that made John’s throat feel tight. The anxiety of hearing Joseph’s displeasure was rising up high and hot in his throat, and Elliot was walking towards him, head cocked to the side curiously, and if she knew he was talking to Joseph she was going to go ballistic. She would, and he would be back to square one—and he’d only <em>just</em> gotten a little bit closer; the feeling of the soft skin of her throat beneath his fingers from earlier that morning still lingered, burned in his memory.</p><p>“I understand,” John said automatically, pitching his voice low. “I do, I’ll—”</p><p>
  <em>“You have a week left. I won’t wait for you.”</em>
</p><p>“Joseph—”</p><p>
  <em>“I’ve given you great freedom to fetch your wife and child, when I have every reason to have left her to Hell.”</em>
</p><p>His stomach wrenched. He<em> knew</em> it. He knew Joseph was angry about it. Regret flooded him; he should have stayed back in Hope County a little while longer, until Joseph was done in his solitude, to talk to him first. “I <em>know, </em>please, if you would<em>—</em>”</p><p><em>“The next life is something that has to be earned,” </em>came his brother’s voice, sharpening as he spoke, <em>“and your wife has done nothing but reject the absolution that <strong>I—”</strong></em> He paused. “—<em>we offered her, at every turn.”</em></p><p><em>I know, </em>John wanted to say, but could not; what would be the point? What would it matter? He’d said it a handful of times already, but Joseph was angry, he was so mad, <em>so mad, </em>and all that time spent back in Hope County felt very suddenly like it had amounted to nothing.</p><p><em>“The gates <strong>will</strong> be closed to you.”</em> And then, his voice harder now: <em>“Tell me you understand, John.”</em></p><p>He gripped the horse’s lead tight. For a second in time, the comedy of it all—trailing after Elliot into a stable, joining her and her friends that didn’t like him at a bar, listening to her mother expertly sliding in barbs—had been overwhelming. His life had temporarily become a rom-com, and by the season finale they’d make amends and everything would be fine.</p><p>This was a reminder that was <em>not</em> how things were going to go. He didn’t have the leniency to just take however long he wanted; there would be no time to make friends, even ones that looked at him and said, <em>just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean I think you’re hopeless.</em></p><p>Get Elliot and baby. Bring them home.</p><p>
  <em>“John.”</em>
</p><p>“I do,” he whispered. “I understand, Joseph.”</p><p><em>“Good.”</em> Joseph paused, and then after a moment: <em>“And no secrets, John. I’ll know if you’re keeping something from me.”</em></p><p>The words washed a strange, cold sense of dread over him. For a second, John thought, <em>have I been keeping a secret from him? Have I been lying to him about something?</em></p><p>Elliot had stopped a few feet away, her head tilted inquisitively. She was far enough that John thought she might not be able to hear him, but still he turned his head like he’d seen something interesting back in the parking lot when he said, “I would never do that.”</p><p>There was a little exhale on the other end of the call. <em>“I know. You’ve always been good.”</em></p><p>Something frantically pleased lit up inside of him, rapidly firing the neurons in his brain. <em>Good, </em>they said, chanting, <em>we’re good, we’re good, he said we’re good, Joseph thinks we’re good.</em></p><p>Just as John opened his mouth to reply, Joseph said, <em>“We’ll talk soon,”</em> and the line clicked. <em>Call Ended, </em>said the screen when he pulled the phone away from his ear and turned back to Elliot, who’d started making her way over to him again. Something in his chest sank a little; he quickly tucked it away, focusing his attention back on the task at hand.</p><p>
  <em>You’ve always been good.</em>
</p><p>“Who was that?” Elliot asked as she came up, rubbing her hands together in the cold absently. John gestured for her to head back inside, and she did, letting him fall into step between her and the horse.</p><p>“Just a wrong number,” he replied with a little smile. “It’s a new phone. I’ve been getting them a lot.”</p><p>“Ah.” She didn’t sound convinced, but he supposed he never expected her to. “And how was your walk with Hugo and Sylvia?”</p><p>“You would be surprised to know I feel much the same as before I walked.”</p><p>Elliot’s mouth quirked up at the corners, tugged into a smile. It wasn’t the first time that he’d seen that little smile on her face, but it was the first time that it didn’t feel forced, or driven by something sour or venomous.</p><p>John offered, “Sylvia has confessed she’s not fond of me.”</p><p>The redhead next to him made an inquisitive noise, though she didn’t remark on it. He imagined this was not news to her, given the way they’d been chatting when he’d come back from warming up the car the other night. He’d be lying if he said that it didn’t spike a little bit of jealousy in him; that Elliot found it so easy to connect with Sylvia, even though <em>they</em> had history, even farther back than Eden’s Gate, if he was going to be a stickler about it. And he was. He wanted to be.</p><p>A little, he thought, maybe he was jealous that despite everything, Elliot still found some way to make a friend that defended her so fiercely.</p><p><em>Stupid, </em>he thought, letting Elliot take the lead from him. <em>It’s stupid. I have people who will protect me too. Jacob, and Joseph—</em></p><p>“But you already knew that,” he added after a moment, watching her. The redhead moved with a kind of surety around the horses; there were no darting eyes, no furtive glances out into the distance, searching for an invisible threat that only she could see.</p><p>“Well,” Elliot replied, “you didn’t really endear yourself to her. She met us in the middle of an argument, and then you proceeded to try and use your snake charms—”</p><p>“My <em>what?”</em></p><p>“—on her, and that’s just not really her style,” she finished plainly, working to take the halter off and then sliding the stable door shut. “You don’t have all of your little cultists here to chant ‘yes’ at you whenever you please. You have to make a <em>real</em> effort with people.”</p><p>“I <em>am,”</em> John snipped out, “making a <em>real</em> effort.”</p><p>“Mm,” came the reply as Elliot slung the halter over her shoulder and started heading off down the hall without waiting for him.</p><p>“Elliot—”</p><p>“John,” she replied amicably. “I’m not going back and forth with you about this.”</p><p>He closed his mouth. Every single nerve-ending felt violently frayed from the onslaught; first Sylvia, then Joseph, and now Elliot. John could feel the headache blooming behind his eyes. Even though he’d felt that rush of adrenaline the second Joseph had praised him, there was still a knot in the pit of his stomach; just there, rolling tight and painful, reminding him that he still would have preferred that Jacob called instead.</p><p>Elliot returned, picking a loose piece of hay off of his shoulder and dropping it to the ground. “We going or what?”</p><p>Regarding her carefully, John said, “Only if <em>you’re</em> done. We’re staying however long you want.”</p><p>“Oh, are we? It’s all about what I want now?”</p><p>“It was always about what you want.”</p><p>She gave him a look. As she shrugged the heavier coat back on her shoulders, and he tugged the boots off, Elliot said, “You know how you’re always saying I need to find a new catchphrase?”</p><p>John pulled one of his shoes on. “Uh-huh.”</p><p>“I think you should take your own advice,” Elliot continued. “The whole ‘I’ll give you anything you want, Elliot’ bit just doesn’t hit the same when you spent the whole time lying to me.”</p><p>“I—” He let out a frustrated breath, pulling his other shoe on. “I meant it when I said it, Elliot.”</p><p>“Fucking me,” Elliot replied, “does not amount to giving me <em>anything </em>I want.”</p><p>“But it <em>is</em> what you wanted,” John retorted.</p><p>“Among other things.”</p><p>“Among other things,” he agreed.</p><p>They stood like that for a minute, regarding each other with tight expressions and the sourness of their exchange still lingering in his mouth. John exhaled through his nose and passed a hand over his face. It was one thing to be on edge because Sylvia had come right out and said she didn’t like him; another to then follow-up with a conversation that reminded him of his existential dread; yet <em>another</em> to be putting up with Elliot’s vitriol.</p><p>“When I <em>said,</em>” he began, “that I <em>l—</em>”</p><p><em>“Don’t,”</em> she snapped. “Don’t fucking say it.”</p><p>“When I said it, I meant it,” he amended tartly. “I said a lot of things that I didn’t mean, too, but I meant that.”</p><p>“Yeah?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. “You didn’t mean to tell me that I’m never going to find someone that’s going to love me and all of my ugly too, is that what you’re trying to say? That whole ‘no one’s going to love you with all that red in your ledger’ bit was just a fun little jab—”</p><p>“No,” John replied evenly, feeling that petty little spike in his chest, “I meant <em>that.”</em></p><p>His words seemed to catch her off-guard, immediately unseating her. The expression that crossed her face was bewildered; the animosity had fled it, and instead what replaced it was <em>hurt</em>—bright and blooming across her features, flushed under her skin in a gorgeous high color. It wasn’t unlike the flush in her cheeks from when she’d been frenzied by the killing of Kian, and it looked just as beautiful now, too.</p><p>John thought, <em>I love her, just like this. Wretched and wicked and furious with me. Hurt and needing.</em></p><p>He had seen her in fury, in grief. Watched the remains of what happened when she sank her teeth in down to the bone, whether it was to kill or to howl in her sorrow. And he had loved her then, too.</p><p><em>I meant it, </em>he thought, <em>because no one is good enough to love you except for me.</em></p><p>“Well, it doesn’t fucking matter,” Elliot replied after a minute. Though her words carried with them the same cadence any other angry response would have, her voice sounded small, like he’d sucked the wind right out of her sails. “What you think, it doesn’t matter. You don’t know fuck all about me or what kind of person could love me, and—” Her lashes fluttered. “And fuck you, John.”</p><p>John watched her expression for any giveaway that he’d gotten where he wanted: inside. Before, he’d known her quite well—could gauge her anger and her grief and catch it before it exploded. Now, with the baby, things had changed a little.</p><p>“I think I’m familiar with exactly the kind of person who could love you,” he said after a moment. And then, gesturing ahead of him: “Shall we?”</p><p>The tension in her jaw tightened, flattening and flexing the muscle when she clenched her teeth. Those spiteful little eyes; he’d missed them, missed the way she’d looked at him. As of late, she’d gotten too comfortable withholding her attention from him.</p><p>
  <em>Get Elliot and baby. Get home.</em>
</p><p>It was a mantra now, running its track in his head over and over until it wore a rut into his brain. As Elliot brushed past him to walk to the car, and he fell into step trailing behind her just a foot or so, he let the words sink in. He’d gotten distracted; strayed from the path—but he wouldn’t let that happen again. Joseph was right. He <em>was</em> good, and he would just have to make Elliot see that.</p><p>One way or another.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Staci Pratt was doing alright, all things considered.</p><p>The Veteran’s Center was <em>empty. </em>Had been for weeks, in fact—after a particularly tense call with Joseph, Jacob had evacuated most all of his Chosen except a select few into the bunker and locked it down. He’d grabbed his keys, looked Pratt dead in the eyes and said, <em>“I want to see you sitting in that chair waiting for me when I get back, Peaches.”</em></p><p>How long was he going to be gone? That was a question that had been sitting on Pratt’s brain for the last two months.</p><p>It might have been more than that; it honestly could have been a little less, too. He had no idea. Three days after Jacob had left with his chosen, and <em>left </em>Pratt in the Veteran’s Center, the radio chatter had fuzzed out. Interrupted by something. A day after that, he saw strange convoys along the streets.</p><p><em>Well,</em> he’d thought, <em>Jacob did say to stay put.</em></p><p>So, stay put he did.</p><p>There was food, and water, and even though the snow was falling, the place stayed pretty warm. He hadn’t heard Jacob’s voice on the radio for weeks. He’d stopped checking it. He thought that since it had been so long, <em>maybe</em> Jacob and the others were—</p><p>“Staci,” came a sweet voice from the other room, “come here, quickly!”</p><p>Pratt pulled himself to his feet. His limbs felt heavy, but pleasantly so; like he’d been grounded to the earth, finally, at last. For a second, the floor seemed to stretch out under his feet, as far as he could see; the leaves, having blown in before the snow through then-open windows, folded and melded against his shoes. Like they were trying to be <em>with </em>him. What had he gotten up for again?</p><p>“Staci!” The sing-song voice came again. <em>Dani,</em> he thought, taking an unsteady step forward. <em>Shit, Dani’s calling me. That’s what I got up for.</em></p><p>“Coming,” he managed out, taking a few steps and then catching his momentum and carrying himself into the next room over. The glossy-haired brunette was sitting with her legs tucked up at the desk, watching the security monitors avidly. Sheridan had come knocking a few days after the convoys had passed, and at the time, Staci had <em>thought</em> she was some kind of test—after all, Jacob had said to stay put. <em>Sitting in that chair, waiting for me when I get back.</em> That’s what he’d <em>said.</em> Getting up for a pretty girl at the door was directly disobeying him.</p><p>But he’d let her in, because she smelled good and smiled at him with pearly teeth and a cute accent he couldn’t place, and asked if he had room for her in the building, and said things like, <em>You can call me Dani, if you want!</em></p><p>That was what—four weeks ago? Maybe more? She’d made herself at home, explained she’d gotten lost from her family and that she’d been worried because she saw strangers with guns running around. She had food, and water, and warm clothes, and—</p><p>Drugs. The “herbal” kind. <em>It will open you to the influence, </em>Dani had told him, giggling when he blinked owlishly at her. <em>Brings you closer to the earth, Staci. It feels nice, I promise. </em>Pratt thought it might have been Bliss, at first, but it was different; it didn’t jar him on his way down, the crash felt so much gentler, and Dani offered it to him to use whenever he wanted, and he just wanted to <em>feel.</em> <em>Good.</em> For a little while. That’s all. Just a tiny while.</p><p>It wasn’t hard, to feel good around Dani. It was like he’d spent all that time in constant fear and stress, listening to Jacob tallying body counts from Elliot. Sometimes the redhead would suck his teeth and say, <em>what the fuck is my brother doing with that girl?</em> and shake his head, and the idea that Jacob Seed wanted to turn Elliot into a perfect killer had washed him with a cold, ferocious dread.</p><p>Then, Jacob had left. No more body counts. No more radio calls, listening to the redhead’s urgent voice from the other side of the door. A tiny while had turned into four weeks, and now he was here: stumbling his way into the security room where she was curled up. Somewhere in the distance, a little alarm bell went off in his head. <em>Jacob would be so mad, </em>that alarm bell said. <em>He would be so mad, so fucking mad, so</em> so so mad.</p><p>But the thought was a small voice, easily washed out by Dani’s blinding smile when he got close.</p><p>“You remember I was telling you about my family?” she asked. She was tearing tiny bites off of a piece of fruit leather; Pratt reached blindly around in one of the drawers and pulled out a bag of beef jerky.</p><p>“Yeah, you said they’d be looking for you,” Pratt replied. <em>That was weeks ago, </em>he thought to add, but did not. “Did you find—?”</p><p>His eyes fixed on the screen. It was a stranger there, on the screen—which was to be expected—but she didn’t <em>look</em> like Dani. Not at all. They looked to be the same age only, but the woman on the screen had short-cropped, light-colored hair, and she was swathed in dark fabrics high up to her throat.</p><p>“That is my sister,” Dani told him excitedly.</p><p>“No way,” Pratt said, blinking at the screen. The woman on the screen was obviously not related to Dani by blood. He watched her move, wraithlike, a ghost skimming along the side path up to the F.A.N.G. center—one of the only places Jacob had left some of his Chosen out and about.</p><p><em>Oh, no,</em> he thought suddenly. <em>Oh fuck, this is bad. Oh fuck, Dani’s gonna watch her sister get killed, holy shit—</em></p><p>“We have to stop her,” he blurted out, starting to fumble around for one of the radio’s batteries—he was sure he could charge it up enough, he was sure, <em>he was sure, </em>slamming the walkie talkie on to the charger he’d conveniently left off because he didn’t want Jacob calling for him<em>—</em>when he saw the flicker of one of the Chosen coming out around one of the building’s corners, suspicious. “Um—that guy, he’s—”</p><p>“Shh, shshsh,” Dani said, waving her hand at him and watching the screen. “Do not be so noisy. I am watching.”</p><p>“Dani, you don’t understand,” Pratt tried again, more urgently, “that man is going to—”</p><p>The brunette made a sharp little noise, a quick <em>tst,</em> and planted a bit of fruit leather in her mouth, knee tucked up against her chest. It was like she was watching a movie. It was like—</p><p><em>Oh, God,</em> Pratt thought, swallowing thickly as the figure of Dani’s “sister” came scooting around the corner behind the Chosen. She was going to get killed. She was going to get fucking murdered, right there on screen, in front of this nice young woman who’d been nothing but kind to him, and he was going to have to explain to her what it was he’d watched Jacob do and—</p><p>Something sleek and metal glinted on the video feed. Dani’s sister was not <em>sneaking</em>, anymore, but grabbed the chosen’s shoulder with one hand and drove the point of her blade straight into the junction of his shoulder and neck.</p><p>It was hard to make out expressions on the screen, details and nuances, but there was one thing clear from the woman’s body language: she was not troubled, fighting for her life, and she had done this before.</p><p>“Dani,” Pratt whispered, feeling his stomach lurch when the knife was pulled out of the Chosen’s neck, arterial spray coloring the ground in black and white on the computer screen. “Dani, what is—”</p><p>“You are going to miss it,” Dani told him, shooting him an annoyed look.</p><p>“Miss <em>what?”</em> he croaked. He didn’t <em>want</em> to look. He didn’t <em>want</em> to see whatever it was Dani was afraid of him missing. The only thing he wanted was—</p><p>But she reached up, snagging his hand and squeezing it absently. She had been doing that sort of thing a lot—touching. She’d bring his hand to her pulse so that they could breathe in tandem, touch their foreheads like she was checking him for a fever, take his hand while she walked through the halls and looked around. Another thing Jacob would be furious about, if he found out.</p><p><em>When</em> he found out.</p><p>Dani’s hand offered him little comfort now, though. She leaned in to the screen a little and murmured, something in a thick, rolling language that Pratt couldn’t quite make out, and said, “Oh, how many people do you think are there?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he said, fixing his eyes back on the screen. “I don’t know, a lot, Dani, there’s probably a <em>lot</em>—”</p><p>There were a lot. There were a lot of them, crawling around the F.A.N.G. center, and he watched Dani; watched <em>her</em> watching the <em>screen </em>as her sister—“sister”—dispatched each one of them with distinct, violent ease. Like it was a dance. <em>One, two, three,</em> waltzing as she picked up whatever she could find and used it to incur blunt force trauma.</p><p>Blood, everywhere. Viscera when she shot both kneecaps of one out. Spray when she pushed yet another’s face into a broken plank of wood, falling off of the side of the building. The picture was in black and white, but even still, Pratt could see it: red, everywhere. Red in the snow. Red on her hands. Red on their faces, on their clothes, on her knife on the <em>gun</em> because she twisted it out of one of their hands and pushed it into his mouth and fired, insides painting the wall of the building behind him.</p><p>
  <em>So. Much. Blood.</em>
</p><p>“What—” Pratt swallowed, his mouth dry as sandpaper. Suddenly, feeling like the world was a conveyor belt under his feet didn’t sit so well anymore. “What is—?”</p><p>“This is the important part,” Dani told him. “You have to watch her. <em>Återfödelse.”</em></p><p>“What does—”</p><p>“<em>Shh.”</em></p><p>He watched. He watched, and he wished that he hadn’t, because the woman on the screen shrugged out of her coat, pulled some black latex gloves out of her pocket, and snapped them on.</p><p>And then, she gutted them.</p><p>Like fish.</p><p>Stripped their shirts and jackets off. Cut them from the hollows of their throats down to the tops of their jeans—which she had enough generosity to leave on them—and then scooped their insides out like a butcher at home in her own work shop. Scooped them, dumped them, sat them up against the wall of the building. The woman moved with the unhurried but thorough, single-minded pace of a woman determined to finish her plate and lick it clean.</p><p>He was going to be sick. He was going to be fucking sick. He pushed the forgotten bag of beef jerky onto the countertop beside the computer. Dani must have thought he was offering it to her, because though she was fully engrossed in her sister’s work, she said sweetly, “Oh, no thank you. I am vegetarian.”</p><p>Pratt pulled away from the computer screen and the chair where Sheridan sat, admiring the bloody gore being laid out before her. The world pushed and pulled in his vision in time with his rapidly increasing heartbeat; he stumbled into the next room, reaching blindly out of muscle memory alone before his fingers found the edge of the trash can and he could bend over and throw up whatever was in his stomach.</p><p>He was wrong. This was worse than Bliss—Bliss was one kind of trip, and you knew immediately what it was going to be from the start. But this? This was a fucking nightmare. Each time he closed his eyes he kept seeing <em>them, </em>Jacob’s Chosen, entrails scattered in the snow and jaws lax and ribcages split open.</p><p><em>Fuck, </em>he thought, breathing over the trash can as another wave of nausea hit him. <em>Fuck fuck fuck, fuck fuck—</em></p><p>“Oh, Staci,” came Dani’s sugared voice, teeming with pure, unadulterated sympathy, rippling bright pink and blinding in his vision. How long had he been knelt over the trash can like this? “Are you feeling unwell? It can be a lot, you know. The first time you see it.”</p><p>“There—” Pratt lifted his head weakly, looking at the girl who’d happened to wander in here, just after he’d seen those glossy gray vans patrolling the area. <em>Separated from my family, </em>she’d said. “It happens <em>more?”</em></p><p>His words came out in a wail, pitching almost into hysterical. Dani clicked her tongue, smoothing the hair back from his forehead in a gesture that was supposed to comfort him.</p><p>“Of course it does,” she told him, crouching beside him, bringing his hand up to her cheek. “<em>Återfödelse. </em>Rebirth. It will happen to us all. If we are lucky, Helmi will be the one who does it for us.”</p><p>The last thing he wanted was for that woman—Helmi—to do <em>anything</em> for him. He struggled to keep his eyes open, the exhaustion of his adrenaline and the crash of his high digging straight into his skeleton.</p><p><em>I have to get the fuck out of here, </em>he thought. <em>I have to get out of here and tell—tell the others—tell Jerome and Hudson and Elliot and—</em></p><p>“It is okay,” Dani murmured, planting her hand on the back of his neck and giving it a little squeeze. “She knows I am here. That was good thinking, to get the radio all charged up.”</p><p>It took every ounce of his strength not to moan in misery at that. The brunette smiled at him, radiantly and with pearly teeth, and he was suddenly filled with dread at the idea that there may be someone out there worse than the Seeds.</p><p>“You should lay down, get some rest,” she suggested gently. Coming to a stand, Dani glanced back at the monitors, and then back at him, lips still quirked in that pleasant little smile.</p><p>“You will want to be at full speed when she gets here.”</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Things in the car were uncomfortable. That is to say, Elliot was still nursing whatever wound his honesty had given her, and regarding him warily out of the corner of her eye every time he attempted to strike up conversation with her.</p><p><em>I’m not going to apologize, </em>John thought resolutely, between the stop at the pharmacy and the house. <em>I meant it. I’m not going to apologize for something I meant. And mean. I know I’m the only one meant for—</em></p><p>“What is going on?” he asked, slowing to a crawl when he came to the turn up the Honeysett’s driveway. It was packed with cars—lining the parking area in a little cluster. The redhead beside him let out a frustrated, agonized little moan, burying her face into her hands.</p><p>“It’s Tuesday,” Elliot replied tartly.</p><p>“Okay, <em>and?”</em></p><p>“Tuesday’s the day mama has all of her debutante friends over.” She shifted in the passenger seat, gesturing with her hand. “Well, you gonna park or what?”</p><p>John’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Great. An audience, a crowd, for the impenetrable, unshakeable tension sitting just there, right between them. But even now, it was a relief; all of those weeks spent without her had reminded him that even when things hadn’t been the most ideal, when they’d been fighting constantly, at least it had been <em>something.</em> As long as she wasn’t acting like he didn’t exist.</p><p>“Can’t wait,” is what he said, pulling the Jeep down the long drive and parking it where no one would need to have him move it later. Through the glass, he could see gauzy shapes milling about, drenched in amber light; Southern women, hair curled and faces powdered and the flowy fabrics of their loose-fitted (and yet, somehow still miraculously tailored) clothes, martini glasses in hand.</p><p>Elliot said, “Stepford housewife does seem on-brand for you.”</p><p>He shot her a dry look. “I prefer my women with a bit more <em>bite</em> to them.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up.”</p><p>So, it was going to go great, then.</p><p>As he made his way up the steps, Elliot paused, turning and looking at him before they could reach the door. He looked at her expectantly; eyebrows lifted.</p><p>“I don’t have to tell you to behave,” she began.</p><p>“No, you don’t.”</p><p>“But I will <em>anyway.”</em> Elliot’s hand rested on the doorknob. “These women are nicer than mama. They’ll want to know all about you, ask you tons of questions—I need you to give them vanilla answers. The <em>most</em> vanilla. You’ve gotta be as unthreatening as a wafer, John.”</p><p>Still recovering from the pleasant swoon of hearing the words <em>I need you </em>come out of Elliot’s mouth, John said, “Scout’s honor, Ell.”</p><p>Her mouth pressed into a thin line. Loose wisps of ginger hair tumbled out of the half-pony she’d slung her hair in, and her eyes darted—unsure, wetting her lips, like there was something that she wanted to say to him but she didn’t quite trust herself to.</p><p>“I’m—” She stopped.</p><p>“They’re going to wonder why we’re standing out here.”</p><p>“I’m trusting you,” Elliot bit out. The words were almost as sweet as <em>I need you, </em>he thought. “Trusting you not to...take advantage of the fact that I may or may not have omitted important information about what was going on back home. I would <em>really</em> like it, John, if we could get through this evening without my life coming apart.”</p><p>The urge to reach up and brush the hair from her face, cup her cheek—it burned in his fingertips, itching. But he kept his hand at his side and said, mood instantly elated by the idea that Elliot needed something from <em>him,</em> “No nuclear bombs dropping <em>tonight, </em>my love.”</p><p><em>“Ugh.” </em>She rolled her eyes. “Fine. We get in and we get out, no casualties.”</p><p>“Just like old times,” John agreed. “Sans the ‘no casualties’ bit, of course.”</p><p>Elliot’s mouth twisted. He thought she might have been trying to stop herself from smiling, but the expression was wiped so quickly from her face that he didn’t have any time to dwell on it too long before she opened the front door and he was hit with a blast of heat and floral perfume.</p><p><em>Oh, yeah, </em>he thought, stepping inside after Elliot to the sound of bright, vibrant chatter cascading over soft music playing in the background, <em>that’s debutantes.</em></p><p>“Is that <em>Elliot?”</em> exclaimed one woman, perhaps a few years older than Scarlet, coming to a stand and setting her glass to the side as she hurried over to wrap Elliot in a hug. “My <em>goodness, </em>look at you. You dyed your hair, didn’t you? I love it, it’s beautiful, sugar.”</p><p>“You’re home late,” Scarlet remarked as Elliot shrugged out of her jacket, perched on the couch. Boomer had come racing down the stairs at the sound of someone’s arrival, little feet tapping excitedly against the carpet as he begged for Elliot’s attention.</p><p>“We had to make a stop, mama. And—thank you,” Ell replied, clearing her throat, returning the embrace for a second before she pulled away. The interaction was an interesting one to watch—and gave him, perhaps, more insight into the dynamic between Scarlet and Elliot than his wife would have wanted. After all, it wasn’t <em>Scarlet</em> getting up to embrace her pregnant daughter after not knowing where she was all day.</p><p>Elliot turned and gestured to John with a smile that looked more like a grimace. Her hands had gone to Boomer, though, rubbing his ears—more for her benefit than his, it seemed. “Delia, this is—um, John. John, this is Delia, she’s—kinda like my aunt.”</p><p>The woman, Delia, turned bright eyes on him. “Well, <em>um John, </em>isn’t it nice to finally meet you!” she exclaimed, hugging him tight and filling his senses with perfume and chiffon.</p><p>“Pleasure,” John replied, beaming, “is <em>all</em> mine, I assure you, <em>kinda </em>Aunt Delia.”</p><p>She’d been right, of course. All of the women in the room regarded the two of them with nothing short of warmth, glowing curiosity—certainly, they gossiped, but nothing quite as scathing as Scarlet Honeysett’s own impression of him and even, to an extent, Elliot. For the most part, the matriarch’s disdain of him was carefully bottled, though she made no move to greet him or show him off like a mother-in-law <em>ought</em> to.</p><p>“John is Elliot’s husband,” Scarlet said lightly from the couch, where the other women made various noises of feigned excitement and disappointment alike. He could about <em>hear</em> Elliot wanting to crumple in on herself.</p><p>Delia left one hand on John’s shoulder, the other affectionately twisting one of Elliot’s coppery curls and letting it fall to the side. “Dyed hair, <em>married—</em>honey, is there somethin’ you <em>haven’t </em>been up to? And what about a weddin’?”</p><p>John had never seen Ell turn into such a shrinking violet before. She blinked owlishly at the women—even the one she claimed close enough to be her Aunt—and shifted on her feet.</p><p>“We didn’t really think about it,” Ell managed out shyly, cheeks flaring pink. “And no, I haven’t, but—well, except—”</p><p>Painful. It was painful, how much she was suffering through this. “It was an unconventional thing,” he supplied easily, flashing a charming smile. “We thought about maybe having a nice reception, but we’re just not in a rush right now. Can’t do anything nice in the middle of winter, after all.”</p><p>Instant relief flooded Elliot’s face. “Yeah. Exactly.”</p><p>“Finally,” Delia hummed, “a man who has some <em>taste.</em> You know, Scarlet, my boy’s been trying to find indoor places to have his weddin’. I asked him, what, does he think folks want to be sweatin’ like a sinner in church the second they step foot in there? It’s no less than—come here, John, honey, you can sit with me—no less than <em>two hundred </em>guests, and...”</p><p>John let Delia manhandle him into a chair nearby the fireplace. It had been quite a blow to his ego to have Scarlet regarding him with so much disgust, like he wasn’t even worth her time of day; even now, when his mother-in-law came to a stand, beckoning Elliot into the kitchen with a single elegant hand into the kitchen, she barely spared him a glance. Like he was nothing.</p><p><em>That’s where she gets it from, </em>he thought dryly. <em>Honeysett women.</em></p><p>“John, you ever been to one of Scarlet’s Christmas parties, honey?” Delia asked him, jarring him out of his thoughts. He planted a polite smile on his face.</p><p>“Unfortunately, I’ve not had the opportunity,” he replied lightly. This was easy—older women, dying to know more about him? Easy as pie. “Christmas is next week, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Oh, yes,” Delia replied, patting his hand. “You’ll have to come. I mean, of course you’ll come—Elliot will be there. Where are you staying? Scarlet didn’t put you up in a <em>motel, </em>did she? I’ll tell you what, I hear the most awful stories about that place. In fact, just the other day, Justine Adler was telling me...”</p><p>The woman launched into another bustle of gossip, busying herself with pouring a drink which was then promptly planted in John’s hand. Somewhere close to halfway into that, Scarlet and Elliot returned, the older woman resuming her spot at the center of the couch and Elliot sitting herself on the ground beside him, back to the fireplace.</p><p>He leaned over, as the women burst into glittering laughter, and said, “Wanted to sit by me instead of your mother, huh?”</p><p>“She told me to pretend like we like each other,” Elliot muttered back. “<em>What</em> are you drinking?”</p><p>John flashed her a grin. <em>“Delia</em> made it for me.”</p><p>“Elli,” Delia said sweetly from the chair, “do you want somethin’ to drink, too?”</p><p>Elliot flushed. “No thank you, ma’am. I’m alright.”</p><p>“Well, if you’re sure.”</p><p>The conversation resumed, and John let a few beats go by before he leaned to the side again; this time, he pitched his voice lower, and he saw Elliot tuck the hair behind her ear. “I like when your accent comes out,” he told her, turning his head to look at her, and she did the same at the same time, putting them almost nose to nose. “It’s cute.”</p><p>“You’re on <em>thin ice,</em> buddy,” she replied, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t forgotten what you said.”</p><p>“I’m counting on that elephant’s memory of yours, <em>Elli.”</em></p><p>“John, are you fixing to get glassed or <em>what?</em>”</p><p>He couldn’t stop the grin from hitting his face again. She <em>had</em> to behave here—she couldn’t kick up a bit fuss about it. But even when she asked him if he was trying to get his face bashed in, a little bit of wry amusement bled into her voice, like muscle memory demanded the jab be more playful than threatening.</p><p>“I’ll drink to your health,” John added amenably, “and merciful nature.”</p><p>She squinted at him, the corner of her mouth twisting into something <em>close</em> to a smile.</p><p>“Sure, John,” she replied. “You’ll need all the help you can get on that front, anyway.”</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>By the time the last lady had left and the glasses and plates were cleaned up, night had fallen deep and dark over the Graves (Honeysett) home. Elliot thought she’d never been more tired her entire life than she had been sitting through that little gathering, listening to the women ply John with questions about what he did and what he was doing, and how did they meet, and wasn’t he just <em>so</em> happy to be down here in Weyfield? Wasn’t he <em>so</em> pleased to have Scarlet as a mother-in-law?</p><p>To his credit, John upheld his promise to behave. He took only one alcoholic drink from Delia and spent the rest of the time sipping it, engaging more freely with the other women than she’d seen him do with her own mother or even Sylvia—likely because they had no reason to dislike him. On a surface level, John Seed was a very charismatic man. Charming. Thoughtful. Perceptive. He laughed and he made the ladies laugh, and even her <em>mother</em> seemed a little pleased; not without her carefully placed jabs, but for a second in time, Elliot felt less like she was going crazy and more like a normal girl. A <em>real</em> girl.</p><p>It made her think about the night she’d first met him, almost two years ago now, and the way he’d looked at her and said, <em>a lot can happen in a week, beautiful.</em> She’d been a fucking fool back then, and in a lot of ways, Elliot thought she <em>still</em> was a fool—but at least she was on the defense. At least she felt comfortable with the idea that her baby might never know John, in any capacity.</p><p>She was ready to cut and run, if needed.</p><p><em>And why haven’t you?</em> Something inside of her asked, as she moved up the steps and stopped at her bedroom door. <em>Why haven’t you cut and run already?</em></p><p>“Elliot?” John turned to look at her, pausing when she did. His eyes were inquisitive. No, <em>not</em> inquisitive—<em>prying.</em> “Are you <em>sure</em> you don’t want to sleep in my bed?”</p><p><em>Lonely, </em>another part of her replied. <em>We haven’t cut and run because we’re lonely.</em></p><p>“I’m sure,” she said after a second. “Nice try, though.”</p><p>“You’re still mad,” he said, his voice rumbling teasingly. His eyes darted over her, lingering on her mouth before fixing on her eyes. “Didn’t I do good? Just what you asked?”</p><p>“You—did,” Elliot allowed after a moment. It was true. “But of course I’m still mad, you fucking idiot. You told me no one was ever going to love me, and that you <em>meant</em> it.”</p><p>John sighed. There was a brief moment where he neither said nor <em>did</em> anything, but after a second he reached up and swept the hair from her shoulder. The gesture made her skin prickle; anticipation curled at the base of her spine and began its stretch, luxurious and leisurely, up to her neck. Tight, tingling anticipation, when his fingers brushed the side of her neck.</p><p><em>Push him away,</em> she thought.</p><p>“I do mean it,” he said, “because, I don’t think—”</p><p>
  <em>Push his hand off of you.</em>
</p><p>“—anyone else is going to love you—”</p><p>He was closer now, much closer than before, like she’d blinked and suddenly he was there, in her space. Elliot felt her lashes flutter; the smell of his cologne washed over her, drowning out all of the alarm bells in her head, speaking to a creature inside of her that craved comfort.</p><p>“—the way that <em>I</em> can love you.”</p><p>John’s forehead brushed hers. So close, <em>too close</em>—but she thought about waking up this morning and the way he’d put his hand just there, in the same place, the way he’d murmured concernedly, <em>you said you’ve been sleeping fine.</em></p><p>“Ell.” His voice was pitched soft, low, something safe and warm and just between them, his fingers threading into the hair at the base of her skull, and now their noses brushed, and John had crowded her up gently against the doorframe, just the way that he knew she liked. “I want to kiss you.”</p><p>Elliot’s throat felt tight. <em>I want to kiss you too, </em>that wretched, sad little thing inside of her said, but instead she thought of something else—she thought about John, holding her under the water, and John, saying <em>enough of that sad little whimpering, deputy, you’re pulling on my heartstrings, </em>and John, <em>spitting</em> mad, telling her he was never ever going to take her back even though no one was going to love her because of the things she’d done.</p><p>“Can’t,” she managed out, her voice hoarse. “You can’t.”</p><p>John exhaled through his nose, his eyes shutting like he was trying to stop himself—from saying something, doing something that he wanted to do very much but would regret later. It took a second, but once she gathered herself, she reached up and gripped his wrist with her hand, applying just a little pressure—and that was all it took for him to drop his hand from her neck.</p><p>“Okay,” he said after a moment. It sounded more like a way to console himself rather than an answer to <em>her. </em>He passed a hand through his hair.</p><p>“We can’t.”</p><p>“Okay, alright. No kissing.” He lifted his hands in a show of innocence. “You’re the boss.” The brunette’s eyes glided over her face for a moment, almost ruefully, before he stepped back and started heading down the hall. “Goodnight, Elliot.”</p><p>She stayed put, up against the doorframe to her bedroom, fingers curled into fists. Everything in her felt like it was <em>burning</em>—rioting, that she had denied herself something that might give her some temporary relief, some temporary pleasure.</p><p>But it wasn’t just about her, anymore.</p><p>“John,” she said, waiting until he turned to look at her. “Why are you even here?”</p><p>He stared at her. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“I <em>mean,”</em> she continued, hating the little tremble in her voice, “did you come here because you wanted to be with the baby and I, or did you come here because you were mad we left?”</p><p>Elliot watched the muscle of his jaw tense and tighten, flexing as he tried to come up with an answer. And he <em>was</em>, having to come up with one, because he was doing that thing where he wanted to say something that was true to him <em>and</em> would make her happy.</p><p>And she didn’t want that. She just wanted him to be honest.</p><p>“Alright, good talk.”</p><p>“Elliot, listen,” he started, and she stepped into her bedroom, shaking her head.</p><p>“Goodnight, John.”</p><p>She closed the door behind her, pleased to not hear any follow-up knocks on her door or John’s voice coming through the wood. It was five minutes of waiting before she finally dragged herself into her pajamas, put a sleeping pill in her mouth, and crawled into bed with Boomer curled into her knees.</p><p><em>That’s okay, </em>Elliot thought tiredly, shifting and closing her eyes. <em>That’s alright. It can be just you and I, baby.</em></p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>“Staci?”</p><p>Roused from his sleep, Pratt lifted his head. When had he fallen asleep? How long had he been sleeping? He struggled to a sitting position, clearing his throat and blinked his eyes rapidly to try and get them to focus. It was Dani’s face that came into view, then, her hair slung up in a ponytail and her nose scrunching up in an amused little smile.</p><p>“Good morning. You must have been exhausted, you slept for so long,” she teased him, and for a second he felt relief flood over him. It had been a dream. It had all been an awful dream. Now, more than ever, he was sure that he needed to get to the Resistance—take Dani with him and get out of this fucking nightmare of a building. Yeah. Then he’d feel better.</p><p>“Yeah, I must have been,” he said a little sheepishly, his voice rough from sleep. “Hey, d’you think we could—”</p><p>“Is he finally awake?”</p><p>The voice that came from the other room filtered straight into his brain, crisp and sharp and distinctly un-accented. The sound of footsteps echoed across the tile before an unfamiliar woman filled up the doorway, leaning one shoulder against it and regarding him with dark, scrutinizing eyes.</p><p>No. Not unfamiliar. Very familiar, painfully familiar, disgustingly, <em>awfully</em>—</p><p>“Yes, Helmi,” Dani replied warmly, “he is awake. It was his first time seeing <em>Återfödelse.”</em></p><p>The woman, dark and swathed in fabric up to her throat, swept her eyes over him. “Dani told me you puked.”</p><p>“I-I-” Pratt tried to function through the panic in his brain, rioting bells going off nonstop. Helmi had washed herself of any blood, that did nothing to erase the image of her driving a man’s face into a splintered plank until he was skewered on it, or the way she had methodically emptied out Jacob’s own chosen and propped them up.</p><p>To get found. To send a message.</p><p>“You?” Helmi prompted, her voice flinty. “You <em>what, </em>boy?”</p><p>“He is still coming down,” Dani said, pouting her lips. She no longer struck him as affectionate on an equal level, but instead gave him the distinct feeling of a girl fawning over a cute animal. An animal she thought was <em>also</em> stupid.</p><p>“Why do you think he’s been holed up in the big one’s base of operations? He’s their lap dog,” the blonde bit out. She took a few steps over, leaning down—she was tall, but dextrous, her mouth curving in a smile that was distinctly threatening. She reached up, and when Pratt felt his body flinch, she grabbed his chin. “Aren’t you, <em>doggy?”</em></p><p>“I-I’m not!” he said quickly, jerking his face out of her grip. “I’m not, I swear, I don’t even like the Seeds, I swear I don’t, Jacob was keeping me here and then he got everyone in the bunker and—”</p><p>“Wait,” Helmi said, eyes narrowing. “You know where the bunker is?”</p><p>“Yes!” Pratt said quickly. His eyes darted between Helmi and Dani, nervous. “I do, I know where it is, but—but no one can get in without Jacob now. Everyone in there is locked down until h-he gets back.”</p><p>“I told you,” Dani said to Helmi eagerly. “I told you he was helpful, Helmi.”</p><p>Helmi sucked her teeth, giving him one last scathing once-over before she planted a pleasant smile on her face.</p><p>“Come on, doggy,” she said, grabbing Staci’s shirt collar and hauling him to his feet. “You and I are going to make a little trip. And—”</p><p>She paused, thoughtful, even as Pratt scrabbled to push her hands off of him. They made his skin crawl—long and elegant, but he had seen what they could do. What they had <em>done.</em> Helmi shoved the walkie into his hands, as well as a heavy coat.</p><p>“Why don’t you tell me everything you know about our friends the Seeds on the way there?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>you can find me fooling around <a href="http://consumedkings.tumblr.com">here on tumblr</a>; i'd love to chat with you if you want! i also post mediocre graphics and sometimes take requests. just today my entire inbox wiped out empty thanks to a glitch so it's nice and fresh : ' )</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. the living sea of waking dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,<br/>Into the living sea of waking dreams,<br/>Where there is neither sense of life or joys,<br/>But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;<br/>Even the dearest that I loved the best<br/>Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest."<br/>— "I Am!" John Clare</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi friends! we've got some ~things~ going on here in this next chapter. i feel really excited about where this story is going and how we're going to get all these little threads put together, but mostly, i hope you enjoyed this chapter! we've got a lot going on but i promise, it will all (hopefully) be worth it in the end.</p><p>and also, a tiny reprieve: some soft elliot, as a treat, because we deserve it.</p><p>warnings for this chapter include: emotional manipulation (joseph is a fucker), some weird/uncomfortable relationships getting dredged up, john is a jealous little shit. some spooky scaries go on, blood and body horror (i think? tagging just to be safe).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Knock-knock!”</p><p>Isolde took in a deep breath, closing her eyes and willing patience to the forefront of her mind. It had only been an hour or so since she’d left the chapel, Joseph’s words ringing in her head, a death knell.</p><p>
  <em>Not after the things I’ve done for you.</em>
</p><p>Even still, even now—he knew how to get under her skin. She thought she’d never wanted to kiss and throttle someone in equal amounts, in the entirety that she had known them; to think that once, she had let Joseph take her in an embrace, sweep the hair from her shoulder and bury his face in her neck and whisper sweet things into her skin.</p><p>He wasn’t the same, anymore. And neither was she.</p><p>“Come in, Santiago,” said Arden, from where she had set up her little space across the cabin’s modest room. The heater on the floor rattled laboriously, clicking and chugging away. Isolde swept her eyes over Arden’s space—a small makeshift bed on the couch, the table stacked with a few books and a notepad she was scribbling dutifully on. Isolde had politely offered her the bed, even though she didn’t want to, and the woman had waved her off and said it was no trouble at all, that she often fell asleep on the couch at home anyway.</p><p>It was still weird, thinking that someone was—<em>with</em> Jacob. For a <em>long</em> time. But, she supposed if there was any Seed boy she thought would be in a long-term relationship, then—</p><p>The door to the cabin swept open, revealing the dark-haired boy from before. Well, perhaps not <em>boy, </em>but <em>young man</em>. Certainly too young and good-looking to be wasting his time with the likes of Eden’s Gate, wasn’t he?</p><p>“You don’t have to babysit me anymore, do you?” Arden asked, not once looking up from her writing.</p><p>“No, no. Unfortunately, our time together has drawn to a close.” Santiago lifted his arms, spread in defeat. His eyes, a vibrant blue, turned to Isolde. “I am actually here for <em>you.”</em></p><p>“Me?” Isolde’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”</p><p>“Joseph has asked me to fetch you.”</p><p>“And you’re a good boy, so you do whatever he says,” she replied tartly.</p><p>Santiago flashed a grin that was all teeth-pearly, perfectly bleached teeth. He was far more groomed than any of the others she’d seen trawling about the compound. “I am nothing if not loyal, <em>princesa.”</em></p><p>Isolde sighed, passing a hand over her face as a headache began to fester and bloom behind her eyelids. She thought she might have been more willing to kick up a fuss if she thought it was worth the drama—but it probably wasn’t. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Joseph was right; she couldn’t be of any help to them if she was being contrary just for the sake of her own spite. Even if she didn’t know where Joseph got off summoning her like she was part of the peasantry.</p><p>“Coming,” she sighed, picking her coat up off the bed and sliding it back on over her shoulders.</p><p>“A sweet word, coming from even sweet lips.”</p><p>“Alright, Romeo.”</p><p>She trudged out after Santiago in the snow, casting a quick glance around the compound. Though evening had fallen, the fluorescents surrounding lining the edges of the compound cast a cold, brutal light across it, highlighting every single <em>pore</em> of the place, every ragged inhabitant shuffling into their bunkhouse as watch switched and folks went to retire for the evening. Some of the roofs sagged with the weight of the snowfall, which trundled on without any kind of end in sight. Isolde couldn’t remember when she’d seen real, unadulterated sunshine last. In Georgia? Had it been that long?</p><p>None of it was anything like what John had told her. Of course, she had expected some differences—the man liked to embellish, to be sure—but the members of Eden’s Gate seemed to have lost their fire. They were wayward, adrift at sea, among waves of freezing cold water and what now seemed to be a resurgent threat that they had hoped to be rid of.</p><p>And Joseph, having comforted them so very little.</p><p>“Icy,” Santiago warned, offering her his hand as he opened the door inside with his other one. “Careful.”</p><p>“Thanks,” she muttered dryly. She took his hand anyway, pulling herself into the sputtering warmth of the chapel where—at the front—the silhouettes of Jacob and Joseph stood.</p><p>The two of them were suffused in a warm amber glow, but there was nothing <em>warm</em> about the mood in the room; the closer she got, she could hear Jacob’s insistent words—the firm, assertive gestures of his hands, the words, <em>just didn’t feel like it was pertinent at the time, </em>coming out of his mouth—the more she thought, <em>I shouldn’t be here for this. Whatever they’re arguing about, whatever it is that’s gotten them to this point, I’m not supposed to be here.</em></p><p>Joseph didn’t respond to whatever it was that his brother was saying, but instead turned to look at her as she approached down the center aisle of the chapel. Despite the rattling warmth coming from several heaters placed throughout the chapel, Isolde felt a chill sink deep into the marrow of her bones.</p><p>“Thank you for coming,” he said by way of greeting. He lifted one hand and beckoned her forward when her feet slowed.</p><p>“I just hope this is something I need to be here for,” Isolde ventured cautiously, her gaze flickering to Jacob’s face. The redhead’s expression was drawn tight and hard, and not the way it normally was; it wasn’t <em>calm </em>and <em>focused, </em>but <em>strained, </em>like he was holding himself back from saying something to Joseph that he thought he might regret later.</p><p>She had never known Jacob to bite his tongue very much, but from her own experience with Joseph, well—he was apt at bringing out the worst in people.</p><p>“Did you know?” Joseph asked when she had finally come to a stop. “About my brother’s...” He wet his lips for a moment, his gaze darting across the empty space of the floor as he looked for the word he wanted to say. And then he landed: “<em>Pursuits?”</em></p><p>Isolde blinked. “If you mean the woman he says is his partner—”</p><p>“Yes,” the blonde interjected, before she could finish—a thing he knew that she hated but he seemed unable to refrain from doing. “I do.”</p><p>Sol’s eyes narrowed. When she turned her gaze from Jacob to Joseph, she was greeted with the typical unreadable expression; as untroubled as the blue sky over a sunny sea.</p><p>But there were storm clouds. Somewhere, in there, on a horizon Joseph would not let her reach now and perhaps had not ever.</p><p>“I only knew of her today,” Isolde replied after a moment. “After we saw our little hunter out in Fall’s End, I imagine he felt it pressing that he retrieve her sooner rather than later.”</p><p>Joseph made a low noise. It was like a <em>hm,</em> but threatening. <em>Hm, </em>he said, <em>interesting, that.</em> But what it was he felt was so interesting about that particular line of information, Isolde couldn’t only venture a guess; and if she <em>had</em> to venture a guess, she would have said that it would probably be that he felt it was <em>interesting</em> that something was going on that he had not been aware of.</p><p>If there was one thing that she knew about Joseph, affirmatively, it was that he did not like <em>not knowing.</em></p><p>“Isolde, why are you here?”</p><p>A familiar spark of anger lit, hot and fetid, in her belly. “Pardon me?</p><p>“<em>Why</em> are you <em>here? </em>In this compound? In Hope County?” Even as he spoke, Joseph’s gaze was fixed on the eldest Seed, the lines of his face peaceful and serene despite the idle venom burning in the timbre of his voice. “What did John send you here for?”</p><p>The anger burned up into soot, into dread, and sat just there, curled at the base of her neck. Isolde could not shake the idea that she had been brought in here to make a point, and that she really <em>shouldn’t</em> be there—that this was something Joseph and Jacob needed to settle between themselves, but that was never how Joseph had operated: <em>fair </em>had never been a stratagem in his playbook.</p><p>“Isolde,” Jacob said, his voice a low caution when she looked at him, shaking his head very slightly. <em>It’s not worth it, </em>he was saying, <em> fighting, it’s not worth it.</em></p><p>“Joseph, <em>this,”</em> she plunged on pointedly, “is not something that I need to be a part of. I’ll go, so the two of you can—”</p><p>But when she went to depart, Joseph lifted his hand and pointed at her and ground out between his teeth, “<em>Stay. Put.”</em></p><p>The poison in his voice was so potent it almost made her flinch. <em>Almost.</em> And then the indignation started to bloom: <em>who do you think you are, to be talking to me like that? </em>But they wouldn’t come; the words wouldn’t come, because when she lifted her gaze to Joseph’s and saw him looking at her, it was—</p><p>“I want you to say it, out loud, in front of Jacob,” he continued, the muscle of his jaw flexing viciously. “Tell him why John needed you <em>here</em>.”</p><p>Jacob said, raising his voice a little, “We all know why—”</p><p>“Because you are <em>useless </em>unless you are aware of what’s happening. Every detail. Isn’t that right?” he prompted. “Isolde?”</p><p>She felt her molars grind. It was clear, now, why he had asked her here. “Yes.”</p><p>Joseph turned his gaze to Jacob. “Is that what you want us to be? Want <em>me</em> to be? <em>Ill-informed?”</em></p><p>The redhead was silent for a long heartbeat. He sucked his teeth, and said, “No, Joseph, I don’t—”</p><p>“No. More. Secrets.”</p><p>The blonde’s voice had pitched so low that she nearly couldn’t hear him, so close and low and intimate was it that he was speaking to his brother, so little space between them. Joseph looked to be controlling himself quite tightly; so very little of the leash available to himself, digging the choke chain deeper and deeper into him in an effort to remain intact.</p><p>“Joseph,” Jacob began, “I only—”</p><p>“A <em>whole year?”</em> the blonde bit out viciously. “An <em>entire year</em> you spent devoting your time to this—this—”</p><p>Isolde was familiar with the precipice at which Joseph was teetering. <em>Right</em> on the edge of saying something vicious and mean and unendingly cruel. She had pushed him there a few times before, in their brief few months together—had seen the way he pulled himself back time and time again, seconds away from grinding out some wretched insult.</p><p>“I <em>won’t,”</em> Joseph bit out, lifting a hand as though to temper himself, “<em>tolerate it, Jacob.”</em></p><p>Silence stretched between the three of them for a moment, pulled taut as a rubber band. Though she knew why Joseph had wanted her here—to make a point, but also to put someone there to witness the verbal lashing—looking at the two of them now, she felt more than ever like an intruder on a world she knew so very little about.</p><p>John had done nothing to prepare her. He had given her the rosy version of the story, and even <em>that</em> included the cult and the killing and the residents of Hope County. It still hadn’t been enough.</p><p>The silence broke when Jacob said, “I understand, Joseph.”</p><p>For a second, there was nothing; just Joseph, sweeping his gaze over Jacob for a long moment, like he was trying to wring out any deception or sign that Jacob was being disingenuous—and of course, he could find none, and that meant there was only the tense, uncomfortable silence wadded up between them, in their own fists.</p><p>Finally, Joseph said, “That will be all,” and turned, tilting his face to the lukewarm light of the candles at the front of the chapel and closing his eyes.</p><p>The eldest Seed lingered for only a moment longer before he left; his eyes met with Isolde’s for a heartbeat before he made his decision, turning down the center walkway and heading for the doors. It wasn’t until they clicked shut that Isolde felt a tiny bit of relief—if only because the source of Joseph’s ire had now departed, and she could get a better look at him.</p><p>It was her job to make sure things were under control. John had asked her here for that exact reason—and this kind of in-fighting would be the kind of thing that would, eventually, be their unraveling if they didn’t get it under control. She had only seen Joseph so angry once before, almost over a year ago now, back before he was the Father of Eden’s Gate. Back when they had been—</p><p>
  <em>There are things that I want to accomplish, and they’re best done with a <strong>wife</strong>—</em>
</p><p>“Joseph,” Isolde said, leaving the memory somewhere else—somewhere dark and deep she would never find it again, “what’s going on?”</p><p>The blonde did not open his eyes when he replied, “I cannot have secrets kept from me.” After a moment, he added, “And in that vein of thought, I should get in touch with our wayward brother.”</p><p>“Do you really think it’s that big of a deal?” she prompted again. “To have started a fight with Jacob over a woman that he—”</p><p><em>“Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.”</em> His eyes fluttered open, the flicker of dark lashes illuminated by the amber glow, and he tilted his head to look at her. There was a hardness in his voice when he said, “God is perfect in knowledge, and I cannot be less. Not when He speaks directly to me.”</p><p>An unpleasant little thrill crawled down her spine when his eyes fixed on her, darting over her face like he wanted to savor her. “Then don’t use me as the whip you want to lash your brother with,” she snapped. “I’m not a humiliation tactic. You <em>do</em> know better than to do that to me.”</p><p>Joseph let out a little sigh. The corners of his mouth ticked upward, the shift in mood almost palpably changing the energy in the chapel—just like that, it was different. Not lighter, not better, but <em>different.</em></p><p>“You’re right,” he agreed after a moment. “I do know you better than that.”</p><p>Isolde’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Deciding to forego that comment, she took a step forward, cinching her jacket in more securely around her waist. “You know what you <em>cannot</em> be, Joseph?” she asked. “You <em>cannot</em> be fighting with your brothers. Especially not the only one that’s here. Your people out there are disgruntled, and scared, and you can’t afford to be picking fights with the people who are the most loyal to you.”</p><p>“They are <em>all,”</em> Joseph replied, “<em>loyal, </em>Isolde." And then, after a moment of watching her: "Is this what you want to be doing? Herding us? Mothering us?”</p><p>“My professional opinion is that the image of your convent is severely lacking,” she bit out, once again ignoring the bait, “and the last thing you need to do is have them noticing that there’s a rift forming between the ones in charge. And yes—that is the <em>only</em> thing I can do for you lot at this point, and like an idiot, I agreed to come here and do it.”</p><p><em>Because I can’t say no to John, </em>something tired inside of her said. <em>Because I couldn’t say no to any of you, even if I wanted to.</em></p><p>The blonde reached up, and it took that gesture for Isolde to realize how closely they had drifted—it was so little effort, so little time between the movement of his hand and the time at which his fingers made contact with her cheek, brushing the hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. He moved so confidently and <em>leisurely</em> that Sol couldn’t think to pull back; and when she didn’t, the calloused fingertips trailed down the pillar of her throat, his eyes following their journey.</p><p>It was intimate;<em> too soon</em> her brain said, even though it had been so long since they had been in the same room, let alone regarded each other in even a passive capacity. But it was <em>too soon enough</em> that her brain fizzed out, the air moving thick as molasses in the journey between her mouth and lungs, the violent flashback of their closeness overwhelming her.</p><p>She said, “Joseph,” in a <em>don’t </em>kind of voice, and he dropped his hand from where it had come to a stop at the juncture between her neck and shoulder.</p><p>“It was smart of John, to ask you to come and shepherd us in his absence,” Joseph said, blithely ignoring the desperate little barb in the way Isolde said his name.</p><p>“I always thought you’d make a perfect Mother.”</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>It had been several days since their conversation in the hallway that night, and John had barely seen hide nor hair of Elliot.</p><p>Honestly, it would have been impressive how quickly she could make herself inaccessible, were it not so <em>frustrating.</em> He couldn’t help but wonder what the implications there were—had she known she could do this all along, and had been indulging in him for some reason? Had she simply decided to be done and that was it, meaning that she <em>hadn’t</em> been done before?</p><p>Not that she was done now, anyway. Not if John had anything to say about that. But for a few days, she barely spared him a glance—passed him in the hallway when she got home with a muttered greeting <em>on occasion. </em>She woke before him, left to the stables without him, and left him alone in the house. Left him alone without her venom, without her eyes on him. With her <em>mother</em>, no less.</p><p>Scarlet was, on paper, exactly the kind of woman that John felt confident in his ability to charm. Single, wealthy by inheritance, a little older and always with a martini in hand by ten? If he <em>couldn’t</em> impress her, he had to be doing something wrong. But in a way that seemed to be very typical of the Honeysett women, Scarlet remained veritably unimpressed and even <em>disdainful </em>of his presence—even though she had <em>insisted</em> he stay with them.</p><p>More and more, he was becoming convinced that it was not going to be to his benefit.</p><p>“Good morning, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet greeted him from where she sat at the table, perusing her magazine. Not once did her eyes lift to meet his, and not once did an ounce of enthusiasm enter her voice. “You are missing from the stables again today, I see. Not a horse person?”</p><p>“I might find myself to be one,” John replied with a leisurely sort of bitterness, “if Elliot would only allow me to come.”</p><p>“Yes, it’s very annoying, isn’t it?” The blonde mused idly, over her cup of coffee. “To not be handed exactly what you want when you want it?”</p><p>He sucked in a sharp breath, pouring himself a cup of coffee and trying to remind himself that this was all temporary. This house, this town, Scarlet and Sylvia and Wyatt—it was all temporary, and soon enough they would be the least of his concerns. All of his time and attention would be wrapped up in Elliot and the baby, and what their lives would look like once the end had come.</p><p>Because it would come, and then she would see. She would understand that everything he’d done had been for them, for her and their baby and—</p><p>“I only want to spend as much time with her as I can,” he replied, managing to keep his tone pleasant. “Before I go back home.”</p><p>“And when are you?” Scarlet idled. <em>“Going,</em> I mean?” And then, in what he could only think was a stretch of graciousness: “Not that you’ve overstayed, because I am sure you would <em>never</em>, and Delia is quite taken with you—”</p><p>“Surely.”</p><p>“—as is Elliot, despite her best efforts to act otherwise.”</p><p>“What?” John’s head snapped to where Scarlet was still browsing her magazine, and he cleared his throat at her arched brow to try and gather his scrambled thoughts. “What I mean is, has she—said anything to you about me?”</p><p>The blonde at the table, swathed in her silk robe and curls primly pinned back away from her face, made a sound that might have been amused. <em>Might</em> have been, anyway, had he not turned to look at her and seen the way her face remained serene and unexpressive.</p><p>“I am not <em>blind,</em> Mr. Seed,” Scarlet idled. “It takes very little investigation to find that my daughter is fond of you, against my wishes and her own.”</p><p>Before John could open his mouth to respond—and press for more information while his stomach did victorious little somersaults—she turned her head to the window, when the sound of a vehicle rolling up the drive spurred Boomer on to barking in the front room.</p><p>“Oh, would you look at that,” she murmured with a little sigh. “My prodigal child, returned home at last.”</p><p>He glanced out the window to see an unfamiliar car pulling up, a black truck that took the fresh snow of the unplowed drive to the Graves-Honeysett home with ease; from the driver’s side hopped a familiar face.</p><p>“Didn’t Elliot drive there this morning?” he asked, frowning as he watched Wyatt jog around to the passenger side despite Elliot’s waving from the front for him to stop. The man had been nothing but polite—even enthused—to meet him at the bar the other night, but that didn’t mean John had forgotten the way he’d gotten comfy enough to try and touch Elliot’s face and her hair. Even now, the man grinned, all sunshine, as he opened the passenger side door for her and offered her his hand.</p><p>Scarlet replied, her attention already having departed the window, “What a silly question to ask out loud, Mr. Seed. You're not stupid, so I would <em>beg</em> you—try not to give me that impression.”</p><p>His eyes darted to Scarlet for a moment, briefly grateful that she wasn’t looking at him to see the spark of irritation winding its way across his face; he could feel it furrowing his brows, drawing his mouth into a hard, tight line. Setting his coffee cup on the counter, John made his way out the front door just as Wyatt and Ell were nearly there.</p><p>“Oh, hey John!” Wyatt greeted him. His eyes swept over him briefly. “Boy, you’re really put together any chance you get, huh?”</p><p>“You can never be overdressed,” John replied as amicably as he could. “Watch the steps, Ell, they’re—”</p><p>“Icy, I know,” Elliot said. She puffed out a little breath of air and brushed his offered hand aside, instead favoring the railing with one hand and the top of Boomer’s head with the other, still refusing him the courtesy of meeting his eyes. It had been <em>days. </em>She had never once held such a grudge against him—not <em>really, </em>not where he couldn’t at least get her to give him the time of day.</p><p>“Where’s the Jeep?” he asked, his voice coming out a bit tighter than he would have liked as she brushed past him. “Surely you didn’t have Wyatt ferry you out here for fun.”</p><p>“Tire’s flat,” she snipped. “Would you prefer I walked?”</p><p>“You could have called.” He took in a sharp little breath, willing the accusation away. “I would have been more than happy to pick you up, Ell.”</p><p>“Don’t have a cell phone,” Elliot replied flatly. “And Wyatt was already there.”</p><p>“It wasn’t any trouble,” Wyatt interjected hurriedly, smiling at John with pearly whites on display. “I had to come into town anyway, and it was gonna be hours before the mechanic could get out there.”</p><p>“Well, it was very kind of you all the same,” John said with a smile that felt like it pulled too tight across his face, a smile that was harder and harder to maintain with every passing second that Wyatt West put his baby-blues on Elliot. And that was often; the blonde looked a little sheepish when his gaze met John’s, drawn away from the redhead who was readily retreating into the house.</p><p>“Like I said, wasn’t any trouble. Always happy to help,” the blonde insisted, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.</p><p>“Yes,” John replied pleasantly, “I can see that.”</p><p>Wyatt blinked, flushing. “Anyway, uh...Have a nice day, John. And you too, Freckles!”</p><p>He waved before turning on his heel and heading back to the truck. As soon as the driver’s door closed and he was starting to pull away, John turned to see Elliot watching him, her eyes narrowed.</p><p>“‘<em>I can see that’</em>?” She scoffed. “What’s <em>that</em> supposed to mean?”</p><p>“Oh, are we talking now?” His brows lifted, head tilting. “So kind of you, to grace me with eye contact when you’ve been storming around the last few days—”</p><p>“Don’t be a fucking baby,” Elliot snapped. “My life does not revolve around you. Especially when I can’t seem to figure out why the fuck you drove all the way here just to sulk around.”</p><p>“Perhaps it should at least be in my <em>orbit,”</em> John replied tersely, “considering that we are having a <em>child together.”</em></p><p>“You—”</p><p>Elliot sucked in a sharp breath, clamping her mouth shut as she looked at him. There was a very brief moment where she looked like she wanted to say something, and very badly, but instead, the corner of her mouth ticked upward and she turned on her heel to walk inside without saying a word.</p><p>“It’s a cute nickname,” John continued tartly as he trailed after her. <em>Don't walk away from me, don't, you owe me at least your attention.</em> “<em>Freckles. </em>Do you prefer that one over <em>Miss Honey?”</em></p><p>She closed the door behind her, promptly and without hesitation, letting it rattle in the door frame and in his face. He sucked in a sharp breath, passing a hand exhaustedly over his face.</p><p>Impudent. Surly. Ferociously, viciously, wretchedly <em>stubborn. </em>He knew this about her—<em>had</em> known this about her—and yet at every opportunity, she proved his idea of her correct, and he found himself getting more and more frustrated. It wasn’t fair, that even those moments of her attention still felt good, that the sting of her venom held some satisfaction for him, like he was addicted to it.</p><p><em>If she would just, </em>came the thought, rolling over and over. <em>If she would, if she would just, if she would <strong>just</strong>—</em></p><p>But just <em>what?</em> Just <em>stop</em> being that way? Would he have even liked her if she were not this purposefully obstinate problem to solve?</p><p>“No,” he sighed to himself, raking his fingers through his hair. “No, I wouldn’t.”</p><p>The reward would just have to be all that much sweeter in the end.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Three hours later, Elliot had forced herself to come to a decision.</p><p>She waffled on it for a while—going back and forth as she showered, scrubbing her hair and trying to let the hot water ease some of the growing aches and pains—and did her best to ignore the way something a little wicked chattered happily inside of her at the knowledge that John’s eyes had been sparking with jealousy. It felt immature, to like watching him squirm; more apparent than ever, too, was that old habits died hard.</p><p>There was a sick kind of satisfaction that came with finding John’s buttons and pushing them. It had felt the same way, back in Hope County—when he’d been <em>burning</em> with irritation and jealousy that Joseph had gotten her confession, not him, that she wouldn’t tell him what it was, pushing and pushing and <em>jamming</em> her finger into that button until he finally snapped and—</p><p>Kissed her.</p><p><em>That’s not what I’m trying to do, </em>she thought, a little defiantly as she looked at herself in the mirror of the bathroom; tracing the <em>WRATH </em>scar, looking down to realize that there was, in fact, a <em>baby bump. </em>Oh, God, wasn’t that something fucking dreadful? Too real, but even still she’d known it was coming—worn looser, heavier clothes. She’d tried so hard not to look at herself in mirrors as of late that doing so now made her feel like she was looking at a stranger.</p><p>
  <em>I’m not trying to get him to kiss me—the opposite, actually, I’m just trying to get him to fucking lay off for a minute—</em>
</p><p>And yet, as she found herself standing outside of the door to John’s room, her chest felt a little tight and her heart was doing that funny thing it liked to do when he was around; fluttering, leaping against her ribs, <em>begging</em> for attention. Elliot could have argued that it was just muscle memory at this point, that she had spent enough time around John letting him touch her and kiss her and say sweet things into her neck that her body was only working off of its basest instincts, and that was <em>why</em> she was feeling this way.</p><p>Clearing her throat, Elliot knocked on the door and said, “John?”</p><p>There was the sound of shuffling on the other side, and then his voice drifting to her: <em>“Yes,</em> Elliot?”</p><p>“It’s time for my appointment,” she managed out lamely. It felt even <em>more</em> stupid, saying it now, after she’d made such a big show of marching off after he’d committed to his display of jealousy. “Since the Jeep’s still waiting to get the tire fixed, do you think you could—”</p><p>The door swung open; John’s eyes flickered over her for a moment, his head tilting just before his mouth curved into a pleasant little smile that was two parts triumph and one part spite.</p><p>“What’s this?” he asked. “You need my help with something?”</p><p>Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t be an asshole, John.”</p><p>“I would never.” He propped himself up against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Wyatt’s taxi services currently unavailable?”</p><p>Already, she was regretting her decision—it had felt important, to have him along, but <em>now</em> she thought maybe she had been too forgiving for having forgiven anything at all.</p><p>“The appointment might be the one we figure out the baby’s gender, fuckface,” she snapped, “and since Wyatt’s not the baby’s <em>father, </em>I figured <em>maybe </em>you’d want to come in for this appointment, because it wouldn't feel right not to at least ask if you wanted to. Don’t worry though, I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”</p><p>“Wait!” The exclamation stopped her mid-turn from his door, the feeling of his fingers brushing the palm of her hand making her jerk out of his reach instinctively. John exhaled through his nose, and when she looked him with narrowed eyes and her arms crossed, he said, “I do want to—I want to come.”</p><p>“You sure aren’t acting like it.”</p><p>“I—Ell, I haven’t heard the baby’s heartbeat a single time,” he insisted, a little frantic. “I’ve respected that you didn’t want me there the last time, and you know, when I wasn’t here before is another thing, but finding out the gender and getting to hear the heartbeat—” He stopped, sighing. “I’m...”</p><p>Though there was a bit of pain stinging in the cavity of her chest at his earnesty, Elliot steeled herself, keeping her expression tight. “You’re <em>what, </em>John?” she prompted. She half-expected another blow-up; <em>I’m the baby’s father, that baby is mine, I deserve this, it’s mine.</em></p><p>But instead, John’s mouth twisted and he said, “I’m—sorry.”</p><p>Elliot blinked. Had she ever heard John apologize? For anything, ever? And sincerely? She couldn’t recall a day or time in memory—and though her memory was spotty at best these days, she thought for certain that was something she would have remembered. Even when they’d been going to bury Joey, she wouldn’t let him get the words out.</p><p>“Uh,” she said very intelligently, “what?”</p><p>“I’m <em>sorry,”</em> John repeated, appearing a little frustrated at having to repeat himself. He shifted on his feet. “I want to come to the appointment. I mean—” And then, in what surely must have been pure agony: “<em>Please</em> let me come to the appointment.”</p><p>It felt so odd to hear the words coming out of his mouth that she could only blink rapidly and say, “Um, okay,” before turning and quickly heading down the hall and to the stairs. It had been her intention all along to ask John if he wanted to come to the appointment, to see the baby on the screen and find out the gender together—because despite his petty jealousy over someone he didn’t need to be concerned about in the least, and despite his insistence that he was the only person capable of loving her, she <em>did</em> see him making an effort instead of yanking her all the way to the other side. Even if it was a minute, tiny effort; it was an effort nonetheless.</p><p>“We’ll have to take your car,” Elliot said uneasily over her shoulder, pulling on her coat quickly. “And it’s soon, so—”</p><p>“Making haste,” John agreed from beside her. He reached over her shoulder to pull his own coat off of the rack. It wasn’t lost on her, then, that weeks ago he had gone to reach for her shoulder and she’d about jumped out of her skin; now, the smell of his cologne and his voice close to her ear was almost <em>comforting, </em>in an entirely self-indulgent way.</p><p>If she just broke it down to the piece of John she loved the most—his voice and the way the cologne smelled when it was on him, and the way it felt when his hands traced the scars on her hips, and the boyish grin he’d flash her—then maybe it could work. Then, maybe, things would have been fine.</p><p><em>But that’s not love, </em>something inside of her said, as she made her way out the front door and to the car. <em>John says he loves all the wretched things about you. Did you forget?</em></p><p>No. No, she had not forgotten the way John had kissed her when she had blood on her mouth, or the way he’d said, <em>I would’ve fucked you there, </em>or how it felt when he buried his face into her neck and said her name in a voice so broken she thought she might be holy.</p><p>“Too hot?” John asked, and she realized she was sitting in the car—that she had checked out halfway out the door—and they were now down at the end of the drive.</p><p>Elliot swallowed. Her face felt hot, and now it was not only because of her mind’s wanderings but also because she had been caught daydreaming.</p><p>“No,” she said, sinking back against the passenger seat. “No, it’s fine.”</p><p>He watched her for a moment before pulling out of the driveway and onto the street. She took a quick glance around the car; it was older, and sort of a beater. The kind of shitty Honda civic she’d see peeling out on the highway at 3AM because some idiot teenager thought she wouldn’t pull them over if the roads were empty. He’d probably lifted it on his way out of town to keep a low profile.</p><p>Her foot nudged something solid as she stretched out. Over the sound of the radio rattling and fuzzing tiredly, she heard a dull <em>thunk. </em>She squinted. It was a book. <em>Unconditional Parenting.</em></p><p>“Jesus,” John muttered, “for a town this small, this traffic is a nightmare.”</p><p>“What?” Elliot asked, quickly averting her eyes from the book, feeling like she’d just rifled through someone’s personal drawer. “Oh, um—it’s a tourist town. People come here for the Christmas lights. They do like a whole lighting festival with that big tree in the square every night for weeks before Christmas.”</p><p>“And that’s why I can’t find parking.”</p><p>“That’s why you can’t find parking.”</p><p>He shot her a wry smile, taking a second loop around the square and a bit slower this time. Elliot turned her attention back out the window, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it—<em>Unconditional Parenting.</em> How long had he been reading baby books? Why was he so confident he’d get the chance to be a parent, anyway?</p><p>When he finally pulled into a parking spot, he let out a breath of relief. “How are we on time?”</p><p>Ell glanced at the car’s radio. “Ten minutes early,” she replied after a moment. “Right on time.”</p><p>“Great.” John paused. When neither of them moved to get out of the car, he cleared his throat and said, “So, what do you think?”</p><p>“About?” Elliot prompted. “The lighting festival?”</p><p>“What do you think baby is?” he clarified. Absently, he worried his thumbnail into the rubber of the steering wheel. “The lighting festival in a tourist town is the last thing on my mind right now.”</p><p>“Well, it <em>should</em> be on your mind,” she replied, a little petulant. “I think it’s nice, for the record. All of the vendors come in from out of town and even though the traffic’s a nightmare, it’s good business for the town and everyone’s always been respectful of it. Plus, the lights are nice.”</p><p>She paused, and when she looked at John, he was grinning at her. He seemed to be enjoying her firm defense of the lighting festival.</p><p>“And I think baby is a boy,” she added after a minute, pulling at a loose thread on her sweater. “Just my gut feeling.”</p><p>He seemed pleased by her answer, but if he actually was she couldn’t have said why; it was nearly impossible to read John sometimes, but especially in moments like this, in uncharted waters for them both. She lingered for a moment before she unbuckled and said quickly, “Anyway, we should probably go,” pulling herself out of the warmth of the car and into the chilly afternoon.</p><p>She wanted to go back to being angry. She wanted to go back to hating John, to being disgusted by him, to relishing in making him suffer, even just a <em>little</em>—but it was like her brain had reverted back to her neanderthal roots. <em>Baby daddy reads parenting books, makes him a good father.</em></p><p>The sooner the moment was over and done with, the sooner she could go back to wallowing on the ways John had wronged her, instead of the ways he made her happy.</p><p>By the time they were back in the room, Elliot sitting on the end of the little bed and John in the chair under a pregnancy poster—<em>Pregnant or thinking of getting pregnant? 3 things to discuss!—</em>she had nearly steeled herself. If she just sat there, and replayed the last three months in her head, and reminded herself of all the reasons why she had left John behind in the first place, she would be just fine.</p><p>And then the door opened, and Dr. Harding stepped inside, and looked between Elliot and John with surprise.</p><p>“Hello, Elliot,” Harding greeted. “I see we’ve a guest today?”</p><p>“This is John,” Elliot said, trying not to sound too miserable given the riotous state of her brain. “This is the, uh—he's the father.”</p><p>John stood quickly, holding out his hand. “John Seed.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Harding,” she said, reaching out and shaking his hand. “Excited? Elliot’s told you we might find out the gender today, yes?”</p><p>“Yes and yes,” John confirmed, sounding more and more like the kind of man she had fallen for and less like the egotistical psycho she’d turned in to the government. Right, the one that had lied, and coerced, and perhaps <em>knowingly drugged her</em>. She couldn’t afford to forget that bit.</p><p>As Elliot went through all of the normal questions—<em>have you been eating well, yes, I see you haven’t lost weight, yeah, how is the sleep, it’s fine</em>—she held on tight to that little thread of knowledge. John was here because she was <em>letting</em> him, not for any other reason, and it did feel good to know that this whole time he’d played by her rules. As much as he could have, anyway, showing up at her house unannounced.</p><p>She settled back against the propped back, grimacing as she shimmied the hem of her sweater up and Harding put a generous amount of gel on the swell of her stomach. Between doctor’s appointments, it was easy to pretend like maybe she wasn’t pregnant. The morning sickness had faded, her appetite had come back, she was getting fine enough sleep; if she didn’t look at herself in the mirror, if she ignored the pervading aches and pains, the roundness to her features then she could pretend like things were normal.</p><p>But then John pulled the chair over to the side of the bed, his fingers brushing hers, and nothing felt even remotely close to normal.</p><p>“Alright, let’s take a look at baby, shall we?” Harding said, settling in as she began to glide the instrument across Elliot’s stomach.</p><p>“Okay,” Elliot said, feeling uneasy. John’s eyes flickered to her, and while she chewed the inside of her cheek, her fingers curled around his—a thoughtless, absent-minded gesture, like she was a heat-seeking machine and the only heat that would do was <em>his.</em></p><p>He didn’t say anything, but laced their fingers together just as Harding said, “Oh, there’s baby!”</p><p>The dull, steady heartbeat echoed. When she stole a glance in his direction, John’s eyes were transfixed on the screen as Harding went over where the features were, pointing them out on the screen to him.</p><p>“Your little one is about the size of a peach right now,” Harding was saying, “and let’s just see here...”</p><p><em>Oh, God, </em>she thought, feeling her stomach roll. It was so real. Too real, to be laying there, after all of this time feeling so disconnected from her own body—like a <em>vessel, </em>but now with John’s fingers tangled with hers and the baby’s heartbeat and a fruit analogy regarding the size it felt <em>too </em>real. She could no longer act like it wasn’t happening.</p><p>“It looks like we’ve got a perfectly healthy baby boy,” were the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth when Elliot’s eyes drifted from John’s face. “It might be a bit early, but that's my educated inference. Congratulations, Elliot. And daddy too, of course.”</p><p>A boy. <em>A boy. I’m having a boy.</em></p><p>A perfectly healthy baby boy.</p><p>The room felt a little like it was swimming, her throat tight and a steady burning behind her eyes and nose. She sat up a little and swallowed thickly. John had come to a stand too, to get a better look at the screen, but when she squirmed and moved he looked at her.</p><p>“Ell?” he asked, sounding very far away, or like he was talking to her underwater. His hand not interlocked with hers came up to her face, and she couldn’t find it in herself to pull away—not only because of the effort it would take, but because of the way it felt to have him right there when she thought she needed him the most. “What’s wrong? Hey, baby, are you—”</p><p>“I’m okay,” Elliot managed out, her voice thick and wobbly. “I’m f-fine, I just—um—”</p><p><em>I’m having a boy. </em>Oh, God, it felt so fucking real, <em>too</em> fucking real, but in a good way—for once, her nerve-endings felt alive, and not with anxiety and dread but with <em>happiness.</em></p><p>Sounding panicked, John tilted her face up and asked again, “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing,” she said, a wet, raspy little laugh bubbling out of her, “nothing’s wrong, I’m just—I’m just really happy—”</p><p>It took his thumb sweeping wetness from her cheek for her to realize that she was crying. Some unshed emotion hiccuped in her chest, and she swallowed thickly, fingers wrapping around his wrist in what she understood too late was an effort to keep his hand there; skin to skin, pulse close to pulse.</p><p><em>I want a home with you, </em>she’d said to him, that night, and he’d looked at her and said, <em>You have it, Ell, I told you.</em></p><p>He’d said, <em>I’m all yours.</em></p><p>He’d said, <em>Take what you need from me.</em></p><p>Dr. Harding was saying something, speaking softly to John. It was another reminder that it had been idiotic not to let him come in the first place—there was something so inherently endearing about John <em>mmhm</em>ing and nodding along, listening raptly as the doctor went over what they would be expecting in between this appointment and the next while his thumb swept affectionately over her cheek. She was sure that she heard the reaffirmation that she <em>needed</em> to be getting good sleep, staying as relaxed and unstressed as possible, but she couldn’t think about that. Her brain was going on loop, on repeat.</p><p><em>I’m having a boy, </em>she thought, <em>a perfectly healthy baby boy. My baby.</em></p><p>When Harding patted John’s shoulder and said, “I’ll give you two a minute,” before exiting, she felt John’s fingers threading through the hair at the nape of her neck; in a gesture that was painfully intimate, his forehead pressed to hers.</p><p>“Holy shit,” he whispered. “I can’t believe that—”</p><p>“I know,” she said, sniffing. “I can’t either.”</p><p>“You were right.” He grinned, their noses brushing, giving her hand a squeeze. So close to a kiss; she felt her lashes fluttering, the warmth of his hand spreading along the slope of her neck. “We’re having a boy. My God.”</p><p><em>Yes.</em> <em>We are having a boy. A perfectly healthy baby boy. </em>Without her permission, the thought populated, permeating her brain.</p><p>
  <em>Our baby.</em>
</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>“Yes, I have him right here.”</p><p>Staci blinked. A quick intake of his surroundings reminded him that he was sitting in the cab of one of Eden’s Gates trucks—lifted from the F.A.N.G. Center. Footage of him with the cultists—the <em>other</em> cultists—would now be available. Footage of him walking past the corpses of Jacob’s gutted chosen would now be available.</p><p><em>Jacob is going to kill me, </em>he thought, lifting his eyes from the back of the seat to look at Helmi. The woman was watching him as she spoke on the phone, with Dani sitting next to him on the backbench. Helmi had been on the phone with someone for quite a while; he’d stopped paying attention what felt like eons ago. If he just let his brain drift off, he wouldn’t think about the bodies. Fucking <em>God, </em>their <em>bodies—</em></p><p>
  <em>Jacob’s going to fucking kill me.</em>
</p><p>Helmi's hand moved. On instinct, Staci flinched, and she rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Say hello, doggy,” she said, shoving the phone against his ear. He fumbled with it for a minute before he swallowed thickly.</p><p>When he looked at Dani frantically, she frowned, her brows furrowing, and she whispered, “Don’t embarrass me, Staci.”</p><p>“Um, h...” His mouth was painfully dry. “Hello?”</p><p>
  <em>“Hello. Is this Staci Pratt?”</em>
</p><p>The voice on the other end was painfully pleasant. She had the same kind of accent Dani did—Norwegian, maybe, or Swedish—but her voice was a bit deeper, a rich timbre to it.</p><p>“I am,” he replied uneasily. “I-I mean, yes. It is.”</p><p>Helmi had faced forward in the driver’s seat again and started pulling away from the F.A.N.G. Center, turning the heat down low. As the truck pulled out onto the snowy highway, she flicked the headlights off and slowed to something close to a crawl.</p><p>“S-Sorry, but—”</p><p>
  <em>“You do not have to apologize to me, Staci.”</em>
</p><p>“I just don’t know—um, who you are,” he managed out. As soon as he said the words, Dani dug her elbow into his ribs; he barely stifled the yelp, looking at her as she mouthed something he couldn’t understand.</p><p>She hissed, “I <em>told</em> you, she is—”</p><p><em>“My name is Kajsa. Helmi, and your Dani, and many of our brothers and sisters are...”</em> Her voice trailed off, and she made a thoughtful hum. Pratt tried to ignore the way she said <em>your Dani</em> made his heart jump in his throat. <em>“They are my charges. It is my responsibility to take care of them.”</em></p><p>“Oh,” Pratt said. “So what...What do you want with me?”</p><p><em>“Helmi says that you have made a very good impression,”</em> Kajsa replied sweetly. <em>“You have important knowledge, and I want to make sure that you are safe, and taken care of. Just as I would any of the others.”</em></p><p>He fought back a grimace. The words sounded sweet and enticing, but he couldn’t shake the way Dani had looked at the gutted corpses on the screen and said delightedly, <em>It will happen to us all. If we are lucky, Helmi will be the one who does it for us.</em></p><p>Pratt’s gaze darted up to the front. Helmi’s dark eyes fixed on his in the mirror, like she had been watching him all along.</p><p>
  <em>“It is my understanding that the Seeds have not endeared you to their cause? That you know what your colleague did, that your friends have left?”</em>
</p><p>“No,” he replied quickly. “I mean—that’s right. Um, I was working for Jacob, but it was more like—”</p><p><em>“Do not trouble yourself with recounting. I believe you,” </em>Kajsa interrupted. And then, gently: <em>“It must have been horrible.”</em></p><p>His chest tightened. <em>Oh, no, </em>he thought, shaking his head and pressing the heel of his hand against his left eye. <em>No, fuck no, don’t listen to her, Pratt, you fucking idiot.</em></p><p><em>“By now you must have some grasp of what is going on,” </em>the woman continued, <em>“but in case you do not, I will tell you. Are you listening, Staci Pratt?”</em></p><p>Pratt’s head pressed against the back of the seat. He didn’t want to; he didn’t want to listen to her sweetness, her sympathy, the way she clicked her tongue and the timbre of her voice warming him down to the marrow of his bones when he felt like he’d been freezing this whole time.</p><p>“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m listening.”</p><p><em>“We are well-armed. We are organized. We have a common enemy with you. And a common friend, too.”</em> She paused, and he thought that he could hear a smile in her voice when she said, <em>“I can tell that you want to live, my darling. That you don’t want me to have Helmi pull over and gut you open, leave you for the crows and the wolves and the woods to take you.”</em></p><p>Opening his mouth did nothing to inspire the words to come out of him. Nausea rolled violently in his stomach—but there was nothing left to puke up, even if he’d wanted to.</p><p>He <em>did</em> want to live, but not like this. Not terrified. <em>Not. Like. This.</em></p><p><em>“I want you to live too,”</em> Kajsa murmured on the other end.</p><p>
  <em>“But you’re going to have to do something for me.”</em>
</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>When Elliot opened her eyes, it had gotten dark outside.</p><p>It took her a minute to collect her bearings, sitting up in a bed in a dark room. At her feet, Boomer huffed and sighed at the disturbance, and then she remembered; she was in her bed. Back at home. John had driven the both of them back to the house, and she’d said that she needed to lay down—and he’d let her, without protest or complaint. He hadn’t even tried to insinuate she could use a <em>napping companion.</em></p><p>Pulling herself out of bed, she rubbed her eyes tiredly and glanced out the window. Everything felt a little foggy. How long had she been sleeping? Had she really been out until late into the night?</p><p>She reached absently to her bedside table, blindly fumbling for the lamp switch; after what felt like an eternity of not being able to find it, Elliot sighed and skimmed her hand over her face, looking out the window. The night outside was brighter than it had been in a while, with no clouds in the sky and the moon illuminating the snowy landscape in an unforgiving blue-white, stretching out far and far and far until it hit the treeline.</p><p>Something darted on the horizon. She blinked rapidly, taking a step closer to the window and pushing on the glass pane until it started to slide up, grinding laboriously. The longer she looked, the longer Elliot thought maybe she had just been zoning out—but then she saw it again; a flash of something, pale and long, like spider bone-white in color skittering up the dark wood of a tree in the distant treeline.</p><p>A glimpse of pale limbs. Tangled, dark hair—she couldn’t make out the color, it was too dark—but it looked <em>wet</em>, it looked <em>matted, </em>like someone had hurt it. Like someone had <em>blown its skull open.</em></p><p>Something metal rattled. <em>The trash can, </em>she thought, her attention snapping to the front of the house. When the sound of metal crashed in the night, the motion-activated light in the front kicked on. A shadow stretched along the snow, cast long and deformed by the warping of the light.</p><p>“Hey!” Elliot shouted, but the shadow did not twitch or move in response; just the sounds of rustling, like whoever it was found themselves too preoccupied with digging through the trash can. Her heart was pounding violently in her chest; the terror that had been knotting in her stomach was doused by something hotter, redder, <em>angrier.</em></p><p>
  <em>Rage.</em>
</p><p>She pushed herself away from the window and out the door into the hallway. As her feet hit the stairs, there was almost no noise—just the rushing of her movements as she pushed the front door open and hurried down the front steps, turning the corner to where the garbage can sat.</p><p>“Hey, listen to me!” she snapped, propelled by the anger when she saw the figure hunched over the garbage can. “You can’t be in—”</p><p>The figure lifted its head. From the back, her eyes swept over what looked like fur, a tail, up and up to the back of a head that had two ears perched on it, until the figure’s head turned—</p><p>Fury disappeared. It was now only dread, only pure, cold dread and terror sitting in her, gutting her, washing her out as the dog with a man’s face turned and looked at her and <em>smiled.</em></p><p>The square teeth, gapped and pearly, oozed with the same dark liquid as she had thought she’d seen before. In the yellow light from the porch, it glittered dark as garnets, dropping into the snow and spreading out crimson.</p><p><em>Move, </em>she thought, <em>I have to move, I have to fucking move, I have to go I have to run I have to</em>—</p><p>
  <em>“Hey!”</em>
</p><p>It was her voice. It was her voice, but it wasn’t coming out of <em>her</em>—it was thrown, echoing from somewhere in the trees, the dog with the man’s face spreading its mouth wider. Somehow, she knew deep in the marrow of her bones that <em>It</em> was making that sound.</p><p>
  <em>“Hey? Listen to me?”</em>
</p><p>The pitch was all wrong. Elliot felt a moan bubbling up in her, and It turned on its hind legs, feet hanging loose around its ribcage, and faced her fully. She managed one step back before It tilted its head, as if to say, <em>where are you going?</em></p><p>
  <em>“Hey, listen to me!”</em>
</p><p>There was something else in its teeth. Something else, wiry and golden, and even when she willed herself a step back</p><p>(<em>whereveryougowhereveryourun</em>)</p><p>her body would not move; she was trapped, frozen, watching as It stepped closer</p><p>
  <em>(ItwillwaitforyouItwaitsforusall)</em>
</p><p>she realized that it was <em>hair</em>, in It’s teeth</p><p>(<em>ITWAITSFORYOUITWAITSFORUSALLITWILLHAVEYOU)</em></p><p><em>her</em> hair.</p><p>A hand landed on her shoulder, and she screamed.</p><p>When she lurched and twisted around, she was not met with a familiar face. It was a woman, hair dark and bundled up in winter clothes, watching her with concern furrowing her brows as the headlights of her car made Elliot squint. She immediately jerked away.</p><p>“Are you alright?” the woman asked, her hand dropping back to her side. She was tall—she had to be at least six feet tall, and her face was sharp and angular, her eyes nearly black without any light to show their color.</p><p>“Where—” Glancing around wildly, Elliot forced a swallow. She was not in front of her house. She was not even close to the front of her house. She was all the way at the end of the drive, standing in the—</p><p>“—found you in the middle of the road,” the woman said, the lilt of her accent jarring Elliot back to reality. “I was on my way home when I nearly hit you. Are you quite well?”</p><p>Her gaze snapped back to the woman. The dog; where was the dog with the man’s face? Where had she—</p><p>Every nerve-ending felt fried, like they had become pure static; she felt like she was <em>vibrating.</em> She stared at the dark-haired woman with the strange, rich accent, wondering why it itched at her. Weyfield was small. Too small for her to not know about someone with an accent living there.</p><p>“Who are you?” she asked after a moment, nails digging into her palms. “You don’t live around here.”</p><p>A smile stretched across the woman’s face. She had pearly teeth, and the kind of full mouth that looked pretty, sculpted—but in the smile, Elliot only thought, <em>broken glass, her smile looks like broken glass. </em></p><p>Vaguely, she was aware of John’s voice; he must have heard her scream, or seen her down the driveway, the headlights of the unfamiliar car illuminating her in the dead of night. And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling. Paranoia spread along her spine, worming into her lungs, a most effective parasite.</p><p>“I know you don’t live here,” Elliot managed out, her voice trembling as she took a step forward. There was a tiny pinprick of relief when she realized she’d regained her mobility. “Why are you driving around this neighborhood? Who are you?”</p><p>The woman turned and headed back towards the driver’s side of her car, hands tucked politely into the pockets of her coat.</p><p>“You should be more careful of your sleepwalking. Someone else might not have been so kind as to stop,” she called over her shoulder. “And—”</p><p>The woman paused, the smile still rooted firmly on her face as she opened her car door.</p><p>“I hear stress is bad for the baby.”</p><p>Something wretched and vile twisted in her stomach, hot as a branding iron. The panic that shot through her system was so vicious, so potent, that for a second she felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs; it crashed over her in a wave so powerful that her vision swam and she thought, <em>I’m going to pass out.</em></p><p>But there was another thought, too, squirming around in there, blinking its little emergency light:</p><p>
  <em>My baby, my baby, you stay away from <strong>my </strong>baby.</em>
</p><p>“Ell!”</p><p>John’s hands landed on her before she thought think to pull away, even if she’d wanted to, as the headlights of the woman’s car turned away and began to drift down the drive. The idea that she ought to chase the car down occurred to her, but the tremble in her legs and the hitch of her breath reminded her that it would only serve to make her feel worse.</p><p>The brunette frantically checked her over, panting and out of breath as though he’d just sprinted down the drive; when his hands finally came to a stop, they were cradling her face, his eyes searching hers. Over his shoulder, she watched the receding red light of the woman’s car drifting in the dark, aimless in a sea of inky black, and she wanted to throw up.</p><p>“I heard you scream,” he said, breathless as his brows knit together at the center of his forehead. “What are you doing all the way out here? Baby, look at me, what’s wrong?”</p><p>“She knew,” Elliot managed out. Her voice felt like sandpaper grinding out of her lungs. “She knew I—she knew about our baby.”</p><p>“Who?” John looked over his shoulder, and then back at her, his thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones. “Elliot, <em>who?”</em></p><p><em>I don’t know, </em>but the words wouldn’t come.</p><p>
  <em>I don’t know who she is, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>but she knew about our baby, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>and she has a smile like broken glass, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>and a mouth as red as blood.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'm on <a href="https://consumedkings.tumblr.com/">tumblr!</a> come hang!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. shadows & velvet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“O, how gentle lust alters a body, conjugates prey into prayer.”<br/>— Aubade Beginning in Handcuffs, torrin a. greathouse</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>we DID it folks, we really got THERE, she really did THAT! this chapter's thus beginning the tightening of some of those thread we started weaving, and i'm really excited where we're going. thank you so much to all the folks who commented, left kudos, or come and said hi to me on tumblr; you have no idea how much that kind of thing means to me, really!! this chapter was really difficult for me to work on for a number of reasons, but i am so grateful and thankful to the people who have been interacting. sometimes y'all really are the difference between this getting done or not getting done!</p><p>this chapter certainly would not have happened without <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blindpulse/pseuds/Blindpulse">blindpulse</a> or <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestTortoise/pseuds/TheTiniestTortoise">thetiniesttortoise</a>, both who helped me with proofing some of the pacing of this scene as well as listened to me bitch and moan throughout the entire 12.5k of this sucker. of course, as always, thank you to my beloved <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starcrier/pseuds/Starcrier">starcrier</a>, mine and elliot's biggest cheerleader; this entire fic wouldn't have happened without you and getting the chance to bounce my ideas off of you is a blessing everyday!!! all of these folks are insanely talented writers, so if you're looking for more delicious content to ingest, please go check them out; you won't be disappointed!</p><p>warnings this chapter: <b>explicit sexual content!</b> aka poor decision making. mentions of past trauma/stalker behavior, brutal beat downs. all of it very canon-typical but it felt pertinent to warn about it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nearly to Jacob’s bunker, and Pratt’s heart had not stopped hammering.</p><p>Somewhere along the drive, Dani and Helmi swapped spots; Helmi in the back, nose buried in a file that she’d lifted from the Veteran’s center, and Dani humming along to a CD playing in the truck. It was so absurd that Pratt had to cap unsteady laughter bubbling out of his mouth on more than one occasion, with barely half a seat-length between him and the natural-born killer.</p><p>“Your little friend has been hard at work, hm?” Helmi prompted, nudging the side of his leg with a booted foot. The gesture made him jump, and he shot her a wary look, slinking closer to the window.</p><p>“I told you,” he replied, “he’s not my friend. None of them are. And I don’t know—”</p><p>“And you don’t know anything, you’ve never known anything, you’re nothing but Jacob’s little pet doggy, I know.” Helmi rolled the window down, tapping ash off the end of her cigarette and taking another drag.</p><p>“He kept me <em>hostage,”</em> Pratt snapped.</p><p>“<em>Bark bark bark,”</em> Helmi replied, narrowing her eyes and waving the folder at him. “I’ll put a choke chain on you if you don’t knock it off, <em>Peaches.</em>”</p><p>His mouth snapped shut at the moniker that she’d certainly dug out of the notes she’d been perusing. In the last twenty minutes they’d spent driving, the mystique surrounding Helmi had worn off—<em>can’t be any worse than what I was doing before, </em>was the reasoning he’d come to between the Veteran’s Center and now. Couldn’t be any worse, and if they did end up killing him, would that really be so bad? He’d spent the car ride wondering maybe it <em>would</em> be better like that; no more running, no more panic, no more nightmares, no more waking up in a cold sweat only to find himself from the jaws of one monster dropped into another’s.</p><p>Pressing his forehead against the window offered no respite or reprieve for the rapidly building headache. The drugs had completely worn off, leaving him painstakingly sober and fully aware of what was going on; the smell of Helmi’s cigarette, and the sound of the car stereo playing some chipper, upbeat tune, and the way the car jostled every time it hit particularly heavy snowdrift all only managed to extend his suffering that much more.</p><p>“Don’t like the song?” Dani asked from the front seat. There was something cloying about her voice, like she was <em>goading</em> him—all of the sweetness of the last few weeks had evaporated.</p><p>Pratt kept his eyes firmly shut. “It’s fine.”</p><p>“Don’t let Kajsa hear you say that,” Helmi said, dropping her burned-out cigarette out the window. “<em>Love Shack</em> is her favorite song.”</p><p>Pratt stifled a miserable moan. He didn’t have the time to elaborate on how he hoped he <em>never</em> had to be within earshot of their fucking cult leader again, or why the idea of her favorite song being by the B-52’s made him want to hurl, because the car crawled to a slow and then clicked off.</p><p>He opened his eyes. They were at the entrance to the bunker, doused in a fresh coat of snow. A few vans had parked themselves to the side, their backs open, peppered with a scarce number of inhabitants. Men and women in dark clothes, durable and sturdy for winter, smoking and laughing and chatting as they milled about. They had paper grocery bags, certainly from what they’d raided out of Fall’s End or one of the gas stations, perched around them; parts of the snow had been dug out, to make room for other fire pits, though it seemed they’d settled on just one in the center and left the other spots of cold, dark pavement exposed. For a second, a strange little flicker of hope reared its head in the cavity of his chest.</p><p>One of the men cut a slice of what appeared to be raw meat from a larger slab and tossed it to a mountain lion, sat pretty at his feet and tethered by a rope to the back of the car. Pratt recognized his namesake instantly; Peaches’ ears were pricked and attentive, snapping the meat out of the air the second it was freed from the man’s hand. He supposed he couldn’t blame her—Miss Mabel wasn’t known for being particularly <em>sweet, </em>so he wondered that the cougar hadn’t fallen in the same way he had.</p><p>“Where’d the cat come from?” Helmi asked. Her voice was muffled; she’d gotten out of the car already, all long limbs sweeping through snowdrifts, opening the door on his side of the car and hauling him out.</p><p>“I can walk!” Pratt insisted, righting himself and shivering when the cold instantly hit his bones. Helmi looked at him, and for a second he thought she almost looked amused.</p><p>“<em>Hej, hjärtat.</em> Found her,” the man replied, ignoring Pratt’s outburst. “Nasty woman keeping her out in the mountains. Decided she needed a little <em>Återfödelse.</em> We had to backtrack a little, but we still beat you here, huh?” He gestured to Pratt. “Who’s the outsider?”</p><p><em>Oh my God, </em>he thought, feeling his stomach roll again. <em>Jesus fuck, they gutted Miss Mabel, too.</em></p><p>She turned her gaze back to the man. “Dani found him. Holed up in the Veteran’s Center, where the oldest was keeping him.” Tossing the file onto the lowered tailgate of one of the vans, she tugged Pratt forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he heard Dani laugh—a pretty giggle, infatuated and bell-like, as she threw her arms around the man who’d been feeding Peaches and said something to him in her native language.</p><p>“Your day is just getting worse, my friend,” Helmi told him, noticing his straying attention, her hand still firmly clamped on his shoulder. “Isn’t it?”</p><p>Pratt’s mouth twisted. He was sober enough now to think, <em>I’ve got to find the resistance, figure out who’s still here, I’ve gotta get the fuck out</em>—</p><p>His eyes turned back ahead of them. The overhang of Jacob’s bunker had shielded one member of the other cult and one of Jacob’s chosen—hands bound and red mask tossed aside. From here, Pratt could see his face had sunken in; though whether that had happened after being subjected to Jacob’s trials, or if it had happened from his time with the other cult, he couldn’t have said.</p><p>“<em>Hej, hjärtat,”</em> greeted the woman standing watch over him.</p><p>Helmi’s hand stayed on Pratt’s shoulder. “Do you see him, doggy?” she asked, pointing at the Chosen knelt on the ground. “Recognize his face?”</p><p>“I <em>told</em> you,” Staci bit out through his teeth, turning his eyes away, “I wasn’t in <em>charge</em> of anything. I didn’t do anything except—”</p><p>
  <em>Except all of the humiliating, degrading things Jacob Seed made me do, like shave his beard and run his chores like a little errand boy, like I’m not a full-fucking-deputy.</em>
</p><p>“He’s told me he can get into the bunker,” Helmi continued, glossing over his venom like it was nothing; water off of a fowl’s feathers. “But that he’ll only give me the key if I promise to let him live.” She looked at Pratt now, tilting her head to catch his gaze, despite his best efforts not to meet her eyes.</p><p>Staci gritted his teeth together. “Okay, <em>and?”</em></p><p>“You told me nobody can get in now, except for Jacob Seed,” she replied pointedly. “So one of you is lying.”</p><p>“I’m telling the truth!” the Chosen insisted, a little too quickly—fast enough that Pratt realized instantly what he was doing: throwing him under the bus. “Seed’s little errand boy doesn’t know shit about what goes on. I can get you into the bunker. I can get <em>all</em> of you into the bunker, without having to deal with Jacob at all, if you’ll just—”</p><p>Helmi turned her gaze back to Pratt, coming around in front of him so that she was a clear and blatant obstacle to his line of sight with the Chosen.</p><p>“Is that true?” the blonde prompted. “Can this man get us into the bunker without Jacob Seed’s key?”</p><p>Pratt felt his teeth grinding, the headache blooming behind his eyes.</p><p>
  <em>The weak have their purpose. You’ll understand that soon enough.</em>
</p><p>“I swear it!” The Chosen was rambling now, desperately clawing to get Helmi’s attention; her head tilted, her eyes staying fixed on Pratt as the man behind them went on and on: “He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, I was one of the most—I was the <em>most</em> trusted, I know, I can get you in, I can, I swear, all you have to do is—”</p><p>“He’s lying,” Pratt cut in over him flatly. <em>Cull the weak, </em>as Seed would say. “There’s only one key into the bunker. He locked everyone down and told them to sit tight when you first came into town.”</p><p>The corner of Helmi’s mouth ticked upwards; the woman let out a little sigh, barely audibly over the Chosen’s rapidly deteriorating rambling. She ran her tongue across her teeth, looking pensive. The man knelt behind her had devolved into alternated swears and pleas, but if she felt anything about them, Helmi showed nothing.</p><p>“If there’s one thing I can’t abide, Staci Pratt,” she said, louder now and drawing eyes, “it’s a <em>poor liar.”</em></p><p>There was a spike of fear that instantly plunged up his spine. The irony was almost palpable—that he would have been telling the truth, and it would cost him his life. <em>God, </em>he thought, feeling another wave of nausea, <em>God, I fucking said that I’d rather be dead and now I’m getting it, I’m fucking getting what I asked for, fuck I take it back I take it back—</em></p><p>Clapping a hand on his shoulder for a moment, Helmi squeezed firmly—enough to jostle him, to make his shoulder ache a little—and then returned her attentions back to the Chosen. With the same disgusting, frightening precision she had displayed at the F.A.N.G. Center, she grabbed the side of the man’s face and slammed it down into the wet pavement; he squirmed, thrashing, but she’d planted him face down in a shallow puddle and held him there with determined force. He could hear the grind of gravel between his face and pavement as he squirmed, spluttering.</p><p>She turned and looked at Pratt over her shoulder. “Bag,” she barked out, and Pratt jumped on instinct, the relief flooding his system outweighing his desire to balk against her orders as he scrambled for a paper grocery bag. The men and women sitting around the fire—Dani included—watched on with intrigue, but none moved to help him as he brought the grocery bag back to the overhang in front of the door to the bunker.</p><p>Helmi released her grip on the Chosen, taking the grocery bag out of Pratt’s hands and dumping it out onto the pavement, canned soups and vegetables scattering around her feet. With a sharp, decisive snap of her wrists, Helmi aired out the grocery bag and then slapped it over the man’s sopping-wet—both with water <em>and </em>blood—head like a middle school bully on a rampage. The man was too dazed to do anything, even if his hands <em>hadn’t</em> been tied.</p><p>Pratt <em>thought</em> that was it—humiliation, or something, to teach him a lesson for lying—but then Helmi shrugged her coat off of her shoulders and dropped it to the ground; she gripped the paper bag at the man’s throat like a bottleneck with her right hand and then cocked her left fist back to deliver a swift, unforgiving blow to his bagged face.</p><p>And then another. And another. And another.</p><p>She did it until the blood started wetting the bag, blotting through and tearing into the paper. Each blow elicited from the Chosen the kind of agonized shriek of an animal when it had been caught in a trap. It <em>was</em> a trap; no room to breathe, puddle water and blood filling his mouth while Helmi stopped the flow of oxygen into the bag as much as she could with his hand.</p><p>It was difficult to look away; it was the kind of gruesome, brutal scene that forced someone to watch, the kind of trainwreck-happening-in-slow-motion that you couldn’t pull away from. Awful, terrible, <em>bloody.</em></p><p>When she was satisfied with her work, the blonde pulled the bag—bloodied and torn—from the Chosen’s face and released her grip on him; she straightened up with smooth, deep breaths, her knuckles bearing the man’s pain in flashes of dark crimson across her skin. The Chosen was swollen, purpling, barely able to keep himself upright.</p><p>“I read about you,” she said, sliding her coat back on. “In Seed’s files. You were a deputy, before all of...” She gestured with her hand to indicate <em>this, </em>and Pratt nodded, swallowing thickly. The labored, beleaguered breathing of the Chosen wheezed behind her.</p><p>“What—” He cleared his throat. “What do you want in the bunker—?”</p><p>But Helmi waved her hand. “Come,” she ordered, grabbing his arm with less force than before. “Time to prove me right.”</p><p>She pushed him along through the milling inhabitants and back towards the truck. “About what?”</p><p>“That you’re a loyal dog.”</p><p>Opening the passenger door for him, she gestured for him to climb in, her gaze traveling over those expectant faces. Stranger yet was their complete impassivity to the Chosen’s miserable moans, the blood and teeth he spit out on the pavement; none of them looked at the battered man but instead watched <em>him, </em>looked at him and Helmi with bright, adoring focus. It was the same way Dani had looked at him when she’d first arrived on the doorstep of the Veteran’s Center.</p><p>“I want the cat,” she said to the man Dani had draped herself over, breaking Pratt out of his thoughts thoughts. The man sighed, resigned; he’d clearly been enjoying Peaches.</p><p>“Yes, okay.”</p><p>He untied the cougar and tossed Helmi the slab of meat, immediately drawing the feline’s attention. Helmi tore a piece off and fed it to the cougar, mostly docile all things considered; she stroked the top of the mountain lion’s head, affectionately rubbing one of the cat’s ears as she studied her, and then turned to look at Pratt, her eyes narrowed.</p><p>“It says Peaches,” she said, indicating the glittering tag on the feline’s collar. Pratt sighed.</p><p>“That’s her name.” He grimaced. “Peaches.”</p><p>Helmi’s head tilted. “But <em>you’re </em>Peaches?”</p><p>He felt the surge of bitter humiliation rising in his face, blood flushing his cheeks and chasing away whatever chill he’d had. “Are we going?”</p><p>“Well, you can’t <em>both</em> be Peaches.”</p><p>“So don’t call me that, then,” he snapped finally. A little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She tossed the meat into the back of the truck and then closed the gate once Peaches had jumped in.</p><p>“Okay, Staci Pratt,” she replied, amusement bleeding into her voice—though it wasn’t comforting; it was somehow <em>worse.</em> “I won’t call you Peaches.” A pause, and then:</p><p>“But I can’t promise it won’t happen, where you’re going.”</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Isolde only made it halfway across the compound on her way back to the bunkhouse that now she <em>and</em> Arden called home when she found herself stopping. She would have missed it, if she had been paying any less attention; she was still back in the chapel, listening to Joseph talk his way through some kind of dominance display with Jacob, listening to him say things like <em>I always thought you’d make the perfect Mother.</em></p><p>Mother, Capital-M. She heard it in his voice, the way he said it. It was the same way he’d said, <em>there are things that I want to do, and they’re best done with a <strong>wife, </strong></em>like her cooperation was non-negotiable. She was either in, or she was out; with them, or against them.</p><p><em>If I have to choose, </em>she thought, tiredly, <em>I don’t know what I’d pick.</em></p><p>It didn’t help that she hadn’t spoken to John in a few days. Just the knowledge that he was out there, running amok, probably fucking everything up left and right—she would feel better when he was back here, with baby mama, and she could leave. She could lay her little head down on her pillow and sleep easy knowing that John Seed, the eternal thorn in her fucking side, was happy and living out a life of cultic domesticity as he had always been destined to. Or whatever.</p><p>Most of the members of Eden’s Gate had scurried off and tucked themselves to sleep that night, but the bright fluorescents beaming off of the snow were interrupted, sliced in half by the shadows and fizzled into static from hushed voices. She paused, hesitating at the corner.</p><p>“—better for you,” Jacob was saying, “to stay here—”</p><p>“Where I’m not any use?” Arden’s voice lacked the sort of accusatory tone that Isolde would have expected out of such a phrase; she was strikingly calm, amidst the chaotic energy that the Seeds seemed to carry with them, always. “You left me at the house with the dogs, and that was <em>fine</em>—”</p><p>“It was a <em>better</em>—”</p><p>“Jake,” and now Arden’s voice pitched lower, softer, so that she had to strain to hear it, “there is no better choice, anymore. Only one choice: to act.” And then: “You know that.”</p><p>Silence stretched. There was a short, sharp exhaled breath. “I could take you to the bunker.”</p><p>“You’d be wasting me.”</p><p>“Well—” He was getting frustrated now. “What do you want me to say, Arden? A cult invasion was the lowest on my list of potential catastrophes to deal with.”</p><p>“That doesn’t change the fact that it’s happening. No use in wallowing—”</p><p>“—not <em>wallowing</em>—”</p><p>Isolde’s shifted back from the corner of the building, intent on making a hasty exit. She’d listened in enough; as much as she would have liked to continue prying into the strange dynamic between Arden and Jacob, the last thing she wanted was to have one <em>more</em> thing clogging up her brain.</p><p>Which meant going back to the chapel, or standing in the cold.</p><p><em>Standing in the cold it is,</em> she thought miserably, coming back to the arching white arbor entrance that stretched over the main section of the compound. By there, Jacob and Arden’s argument was just a muffled exchange; she didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because about ten seconds of standing passed before she realized someone was beelining across the compound toward her.</p><p>She squinted. The man—and it was a <em>man</em>—wore a green shirt and dark pants, and no coat; from what she could see, his dark hair was bedraggled and barely taken care of. If not for the clothing, Soli would have thought him just another member of Eden’s Gate, he was so filthy.</p><p>“Who are you?” she called, eyes narrowing. The sound of her voice snapped the man’s attention to her, where before it had been roving the compound.</p><p>“Um—” His voice trembled; maybe from cold, or fear. She couldn’t tell yet. “I’m looking for—”</p><p>“Peaches?” Jacob barked the word—name?—out, having come out around the corner at the sound of Isolde raising the proverbial alarm. His expression was set in a hard, firm line, his brows furrowing. Arden trailed after him; her eyes met Isolde’s for a moment, a tired little smile on her face. “What the hell are you doing all the way out here?”</p><p>The man stopped a few feet away; this close, she could see he wore a dirty deputy’s shirt, with a nametag on over the pocket that said <em>PRATT.</em> He flinched when Jacob’s voice raised impatiently and he said, “Speak.”</p><p>“You—told me to wait,” Pratt managed out. “And everyone’s—everyone’s—they’re all dead—”</p><p><em>Dead.</em> Isolde didn’t know the statistics. She didn’t know how many men “everyone” was. What she <em>did</em> know was that the person who’d been hunting Jacob’s smaller pack for sport was still at large, somewhere, apparently continuing their fun little game. “Where?” she snapped. “Where and who is everyone?”</p><p>The man’s eyes flickered to her, the curiosity that came with unfamiliarity taking over the apparent panic that Jacob seemed so apt at instilling in him.</p><p>“At the F.A.N.G. Center,” he replied after a moment, looking back at Jacob. “Your Chosen.”</p><p>“Bullshit,” Jacob ground out. “There’s no fucking way.”</p><p>“I saw it,” the man insisted. “I saw it—happen. On the cameras. I tried to radio but I couldn’t.”</p><p>“Goddamnit—”</p><p>Jacob passed a hand over his face, the muscle of his jaw clenching for just a moment before he set off towards the chapel. Isolde gave the dirty straggler a final once-over, exchanged a look with Arden, and then went after him, a frown set deep in her features. She heard the sound of footsteps following; their irregular cadence could only be the clumsy and worn-out Peaches, or Pratt, or whoever he was to Jacob. An assistant, maybe? He didn’t get far; Arden intercepted smoothly, saying something in a calm, soothing tone, and when Isolde glanced over her shoulders she saw the woman had her hands on his shoulders, like she was checking him for injuries.</p><p>“How many?” Isolde asked, falling into step. “How many men is that, Jacob?” When he didn’t answer, she tried again, “Maybe we should wait for John to get back here with—”</p><p>“You really want to bank on John getting Deputy Honeysett back here in time to be of any use?” Jacob snapped at her, stopping just outside the chapel doors. “We’re getting picked off, Sol. Pretty soon, whoever it is’ll be making their way here, and I’m guessing they want Honeysett, and she’s not goin’ to fuckin’ <em>be here.”</em></p><p>“I can help,” blurted the man from behind them. Both of their heads swiveled instantly to him, and he almost looked like he regretted his little outburst, shrinking closer to Arden.</p><p>Jacob spoke first. “Spit it out.”</p><p>“You want—you want, um, Elliot, right?” Pratt shifted on his feet, wetting his lips and looking between them nervously for a moment. “I can get her here.”</p><p>It felt a little too desperate to be real. If they’d had Pratt this whole time, apparently sitting tight just where Jacob had left him, and he had enough pull to get this woman John had hunted across the country to just drive all the way back there, Isolde didn’t know why John had bothered going at all. Why not just fetch her like this?</p><p>“We dated,” Pratt hurried on, “back in high school. I’ve known her forever. And—she thinks the Resistance all left, right?”</p><p>He was looking earnestly at Jacob, whose expression remained unreadable. When he seemed to get no response from Jacob, his gaze turned to Isolde and Arden, insistent and unsure who he needed to win over.</p><p>“We’re close,” he continued. “<em>Were</em> close, I mean. She probably thinks I’m gone by now. If you let me call her, and tell her I’m still here—”</p><p>“She’ll fly five states down to come and rescue you?” Isolde replied, cocking her head to the side. “If we could have done that, why wouldn’t we, instead of sending John to go fetch the baby mama?”</p><p>“The—” Pratt blinked rapidly. “Huh?”</p><p>Jacob rolled his eyes, gesturing <em>come on; </em>taking advantage of Pratt’s surprise, Arden guided Pratt to the doors and past Jacob. The apparent newsbomb did nothing to make the redhead’s presence less of a threat to the deputy, because Pratt skirted him as best as possible.</p><p>“Inside,” he barked out. “You’re making that phone call. And if you <em>can’t</em> get Honeysett down here—”</p><p>“I will!” Pratt insisted, even As Arden was still walking him in. “I will, just get me on—get me on the phone with her—”</p><p>He stumbled inside. Isolde pressed her lips into a thin line, catching Jacob’s hand before he could move further in after the poor man he’d somehow gotten a magical hold over. His eyes went to her hand on his arm first, and then up to her face, eyes narrowing.</p><p>“You don’t think it’s too good to be true?” she asked him, keeping her voice low when the sound of Joseph’s mild surprised echoed in the chapel. “Just out of nowhere? When you’re about to go killer-hunting?”</p><p>Jacob’s mouth twisted into a grimace. He pulled his hand out of her grip. There was a tired sort of resignation in his expression when he sighed; like he’d jumped from one argument into another and then yet another, and perhaps a fourth one hurtling rapidly towards him, waiting inside after the tension with Joseph was still so fresh.</p><p>“I think,” he said at last, “it’s our only option.”</p><p>He turned and stepped inside, closing the doors to the chapel behind him. Isolde raked her fingers through her hair. It was a right royal fucking mess John had dropped her into, and even though she was supposed to be here <em>consulting, </em>it seemed like no one wanted her actual opinion on things.</p><p><em>Oh well, </em>she thought exhaustedly, pushing the doors open and stepping back into the chilly chapel, <em>what’s new?</em></p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>It took another hour for things to finally quiet down.</p><p>Certainly, Scarlet’s fussing didn’t help. She immediately went into a fury upon hearing about the woman in the road, all concerns about Elliot’s midnight wanderings seeming to have flown her mind as she called up the local sheriff and demanded they come out immediately to secure the premises. The Honeysett matriarch kept saying things like, “Well, what did she look like, Elli? What kind of car was she driving? Did you get a look at the license plate? Which way did she go?”</p><p>With each passing question, the redhead’s distress became more and more apparent. John could feel the firm downturn of his mouth as he watched Elliot’s lashes flutter and her eyes struggling to focus, while Scarlet prattled on the phone about how ridiculous it was that she couldn’t feel safe in her own home, let alone her expecting daughter.</p><p>As her mother drifted into the kitchen—presumably to make herself a cocktail, given how frequently she kept mentioning <em>her nerves</em>—John took the opportunity to guide Elliot up the stairs. He could still hear Scarlet halfway down the hallway, going, “Well, <em>Jim Pritchard, </em>I don’t know how you expect me to host a Christmas party with strange out-of-towners prowling around my property, and may that be the last time you ever have the audacity to first-name-last-name <em><strong>me,</strong> boy,” </em>and it made him briefly grateful that her attentions were no longer on Elliot but elsewhere.</p><p>“I don’t think you should sleep alone anymore,” he began, brows furrowing. “I know you think I’m just saying that because—”</p><p>“Fine,” Elliot interrupted, swallowing thickly. “I mean—yes. I agree.”</p><p>He paused, turning to look at her. Her expression was pulled tight and she wasn’t quite willing to meet his gaze; instead, she focused on the space over his shoulder, the windows lining the high ceiling of the foyer and leading out into the dark drive once again.</p><p>“Ell,” John murmured. When her eyes didn’t refocus, he tried again. “Elliot.”</p><p>“<em>What, </em>John?” she snapped, bristling. “Are we just going to stand in this fucking hallway, wasting all this time, or can I go to sleep?”</p><p>That was comforting, at least; there was nothing worse than an Elliot who didn’t appear to be feeling anything at all, given that she always seemed to be feeling <em>something</em> at exponential intervals. The words <em>tell me what’s going on</em> sat on the tip of his tongue, desperate to get out—but that had gotten him nowhere before.</p><p>Fighting back a wry smile at her readily-available venom, John replied, “I wish you would tell me what you’ve been seeing when you sleepwalk.”</p><p>The way he said the words seemed to catch her off guard. “Whether you believe it or not, we <em>are</em> on the same team—”</p><p>Her eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh.”</p><p>“—and <em>even if</em> you want to act like you don’t believe me when I tell you how I feel,” he continued, ignoring her unimpressed noise, “I <em>do</em> have a vested interest in you being <em>safe.</em> You <em>and</em> our baby.”</p><p>Elliot’s mouth twisted, then, biting down on the words that wanted to come out of her. He’d seen the same wild look flash over her face when he’d referred to the baby as <em>his</em> baby, saw the way her hackles had lifted and her eyes had narrowed, ready to claw and bite and tear. Even now, <em>our baby</em> seemed to <em>barely</em> appease this newfound protectiveness—toeing a thin, delicate line, just barely allowed to exist in the same realm as the baby.</p><p>And as much as John thought, <em>I deserve it, that baby is as much mine as it is hers, </em>he knew that Elliot didn’t <em>have</em> to give him anything—she’d <em>given</em> him the appointment. She’d <em>given </em>him closeness.</p><p>Her hand slipped in his grip, catching at the base of her wrist, her eyes fixing him on warily. There was a softness there too, that he recognized—a softness that he’d wanted, the same kind of way she looked when she’d said things like <em>I want a home with you—</em>and it haunted the corners of her expression, flickering something dark and dreadful and disappearing just from his sight every time he thought he found it.</p><p>She said, “Move. I’m taking a shower.”</p><p>John sighed. “Elliot, have you considered that it might be safer to go back to—”</p><p><em>“Move,”</em> she bit out, “or I’ll <em>move you.”</em></p><p>He dropped her hand, though reluctantly; the contact still made his skin prickle, itching for it. It felt like a thousand steps back had been taken from where they had been; even just their second night together, kissing her with the taste of another man’s blood in her mouth, she’d been <em>tactile</em>—gripping, pulling, digging her nails into his skin as though she’d thought about leaving a more permanent kind of mark on him.</p><p>She had it in her. It was just buried somewhere; buried in the same place she kept that part of her that had received the <em>Wrath</em> scar with hitched breaths and pleasant squirms. Her little spark of venom still stung deliciously, making him feel like maybe it wasn’t buried as far down as he might have initially thought.</p><p>With the memory of the night of Kian’s death still fresh in his mind—in his mouth—John turned his head to look at her as she brushed past him and said, “Want company?”</p><p>Elliot stopped in the doorway to her bedroom. Her eyes narrowed and swept over him, almost like she was considering: but there was too much hardness in her expression, nothing like the way she had looked at him that night with Kian’s blood rinsing off of her skin, saying <em>you should have, you should have fucked me right there, John. </em>It was different.</p><p>“So you can stroke your ego over your handiwork?” she replied tartly. “I’ll pass.”</p><p>“<em>Our</em> handiwork,” John corrected her. He did <em>want</em> to see the scar, want to put his hands on it, his <em>mouth</em> on it. “Admittedly, that I haven’t gotten to see it <em>does</em> sit as a point of contention for me—”</p><p>“Oh, <em>fuck off.”</em></p><p>“—but I’m willing to wait,” he finished, idly. “For <em>you, </em>Ell.”</p><p>He watched her carefully, watched her turn away and let her shoulders sag with exhaustion. She didn’t answer him—that much seemed to be out of pure spite—but she said briskly over her shoulder, “I like the left side of the bed.”</p><p>John’s mouth ticked upwards. Taking in a few steps toward her and into the doorway to her bedroom, he prompted, “Your place or mine?”</p><p>“Mine,” Elliot replied exhaustedly. “Curtains stay closed.”</p><p>“Yes, boss.”</p><p>She made a noise. <em>Disgust</em> was the easiest way to categorize it, perhaps frustration, but John thought he knew his girl well enough by now: the threat level of it was mild at best. Elliot closed the door to the bathroom with a definitive <em>click-click</em> that left, unfortunately, no room for misunderstanding: she did <em>not</em> want company in the shower.</p><p>Letting out a small breath, John stepped out of his shoes and passed his hands over his face. He couldn’t shake the way Elliot had looked, out there—ashen, dazed, like she was still asleep. Like she wasn’t sure if she was <em>awake.</em></p><p>
  <em>She knew about our baby.</em>
</p><p>The memory of those words made his skin crawl. The flash of pale limbs he’d thought he’d seen in the trees now felt more malicious than it did a figment. It reminded him of the way she’d stared into the trees, not so long ago, when they’d fished her out of the family’s grasp; <em>John, I don’t think I can, </em>she’d said, balking, her eyes blown black from the drugs and fixed on the treeline, her voice pitching with anxiety. She’d stared at the forest, then, with pure panic and contempt, and now John couldn’t help but feel a similar kind of disgust with its depths—both unreadable and impossible to completely ignore. An unknown variable.</p><p>To be afraid of the woods was one thing. Childish, even. But after the things they’d seen, was it so strange that it would haunt her now, even as far from Hope County as she was?</p><p>The water in the bathroom kicked on, first heavier and then into the softer sound of the shower. John scratched his forehead and fished his phone out of his pocket, dropping it on top of the comforter. Everything felt like it was too important at the moment—Elliot, and Joseph, and this strange woman who knew about their baby. What was the thing Isolde had always told him? <em>If everything is important, nothing is important?</em></p><p>It wasn’t until he’d said to Boomer, “Just you and me, beastie,” and resigned himself to starting to shuck his clothes that he heard three sharp knocks at the door.</p><p>“Elliot?” It was Scarlet’s voice; she sounded <em>terse, </em>like she’d just sucked on a lemon. “The sheriff is here and wants to talk to you.”</p><p>John stifled a groan and came to a stand, having gotten halfway comfortable on the edge of the bed when his mother-in-law had decided to come up. Certainly, she’d given the sheriff quite a tongue-lashing from what he’d heard, and he was not in the mood to feel that kind of wrath for himself. <em>I guess it runs in the family.</em></p><p>He opened the door to find the blonde standing there, Hollywood-style curls perfectly brushed back from her face and the robe cinched in at her waist snug and tight. More and more, he was beginning to see the resemblance between her and Elliot: though Ell rarely seemed to feel the need to dress up to the extent Scarlet did, in every other way, they were nearly mirror images of each other.</p><p>Scarlet’s eyes took on a disdainful journey along his scars and tattoos. “Good lord,” she sighed, averting her eyes at last. It had been a long time since John had felt anything close to shame regarding the scars on him; here and now, with Elliot’s mother’s judgment ringing in his head, it was difficult to stay put.</p><p>“Ell’s in the shower,” he told her, by way of explanation, ignoring the way she looked like talking to him was going to make her pass out. “Door’s locked.”</p><p>“Well, what did you let her do <em>that </em>for?” Scarlet snipped. “I need her to tell Sheriff Pritchard what happened.”</p><p>There was no stopping the furrow of his brow, nor the way the words came out more petty than he would have liked when he said, “You mean, why did I let her take a shower?”</p><p>Scarlet’s eyes narrowed. “John Seed,” she began, “by my grace alone you’re standin’ in <em>this house </em>trying to repair the damage you did to <em>my daughter.”</em></p><p>It was his turn to frown, for his expression to tighten. “Well, now—”</p><p>“Don’t you <em>well now </em>me,” the blonde cut over him. “You and your back-water, nobody-brothers might have sweet-talked your way into Hope County, but half a brain cell is <em>not</em> a high bar to beat, and I’ve got it beat by a fat mile. You hear me? I won’t tolerate it.”</p><p>John felt his molars grind. When he didn’t respond, Scarlet prompted, “Have you suddenly become deaf or <em>what, Mr. Seed?”</em></p><p>Anyone else. If it were <em>anyone else, </em>he knew, this would not be happening—anyone except the mother of his wife, the grandmother to his baby, anyone that Elliot would not immediately detest him for putting them in their place. Scarlet Honeysett was by far the most infuriating, loathsome, <em>impossible</em>—</p><p>“No,” he said, managing to keep his tone cool despite the desire to break the enamel of his teeth with the pressure of gritting them together, “I’m not deaf, Mrs. Honeysett.”</p><p>“I won’t tolerate it, this impudence,” Scarlet reiterated, sharp. “I especially won’t tolerate it from the likes of <em>you.”</em></p><p><em>One, two, three, fucking—God damn it. One breath in, one breath out. </em>“Of course,” John agreed as mildly as he could. “Can the sheriff wait until Elliot’s out of the shower?”</p><p>“Certainly not, it’s nearly four in the morning.” She gestured, a vague reprimand for him to follow. “You’ll have to do your best, and I’ll take Elliot down to the station later when she’s gotten some rest.”</p><p>The last thing John wanted to do was get at all tangled up in local law enforcement. Or <em>any</em> law enforcement, for that matter. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure; the last thing he wanted to do was leave Elliot entirely, completely alone.</p><p>Scarlet turned to look at him. A manicured brow arched upward. “Are you coming?” she demanded. “<em>Someone </em>has to make sure this wasn’t a complete waste of the sheriff’s time.”</p><p>He had half a mind to ask why she’d even bothered demanding they come all the way out, if she didn’t think that this stranger was worth her time—but he knew better. Polishing his best Good Boy manners, John said, “Yes ma’am.”</p><p>“And put a shirt on,” Scarlet snapped without looking at him. “I won’t have my son-in-law looking like a degenerate in front of the local law enforcement.”</p><p>There was no time to wonder if she meant to insult the scars or tattoos, or perhaps both, because she swept down around the corner of the stairs and into the grand entrance of the Graves home before he could ask her what on earth she meant by him looking like a degenerate. Downstairs, he could hear her—“We’re all very shaken up, Jim, Elliot included, and I just think right now it’s best to let her have her rest—you know, for the baby,”—and he closed his eyes for a moment, willing the strength into his core.</p><p>Elliot would never come home if her mother hated him. More than she already did, anyway. And though Scarlet Honeysett had proven herself to be the exact kind of woman John hated, there was nothing to be done about it now; even if there was something that made him secretly pleased to be called her <em>son-in-law, </em>rather than a tertiary force in her life. <em>John is Elliot’s husband</em> vs <em>John is my son-in-law </em>hit differently.</p><p>Pulling the shirt back on over his head, John gave the bathroom door one last look—the shower water still running at irregular intervals, which made him comfortable with the idea that she was standing there still well and good—before he made his way downstairs. Inside the fastidiously-sitting room stood an older man, seasoned and silvered, and several younger officers lingered on the front porch outside the door. It was apparent no expense had been spared for Scarlet’s distress.</p><p>“This is John,” the matriarch announced, gesturing from where she had seated herself by the fire again, martini glass glittering in the firelight. “My son-in-law.”</p><p>“Little Elli married, huh?” The man, presumably Pritchard, squinted at John as he came down the stairs. “You look like a city boy, <em>boy.”</em></p><p>Another spike of irritation flared up his spine, red-hot and wretched. “You had questions?” John asked tightly.</p><p>“S’pose, if the woman herself ain’t gonna come down.”</p><p>“She was physically accosted in the middle of the night,” he snapped. “I’d thank you to give her some reprieve.”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Pritchard replied dryly. “This ain’t another of those—phantom calls, is it?”</p><p>John looked at Scarlet. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, her brows pulled together at the center of her forehead. She took a sip of her martini. “The woman was in the middle of a private drive, Jim,” is what she said by way of explanation.</p><p>“Phantom calls?” John prompted. Pritchard scratched his cheek.</p><p>“You ain’t ever heard of your wife’s makin’ calls about a ghost gettin’ in and out of her house?” the sheriff asked him.</p><p>Scarlet began furiously, “Jim, don’t you—”</p><p>“You know—the kind what comes in and moves things around, but ain’t no trace of him?” Pritchard gestured. “Record playing. Books out of order, like she isn’t going to be the one to mistakenly put them back in the wrong order.”</p><p>“Oh, but you are <em>wretched, </em>Jim Pritchard,” Scarlet snapped, coming to a stand. “You’re already here on account of one instance of bad business, but then you bring up more? It’s like you don’t even care for my heart. I’m not a young thing anymore—”</p><p>“You’re the sturdiest woman I know,” Pritchard told her, as though that would assuage her distress. “Ain’t nobody out here tryin’ to make you feel bad, Lettie, just wantin’ to make sure we’ve got a real perp on our hands.”</p><p>There was a stiffening in his shoulders. It was the kind that came with hostility; John could <em>feel</em> it welling up inside of him, poisonous and hot, desperate to end the conversation right where it was—<em>Elliot wouldn't want this, Elliot wouldn’t want you talking about those things she went through, it’s not <strong>for </strong>you to say.</em></p><p>“Scarlet, you brought that daughter of yours down here every summer,” he plunged on, “and every summer, without fail, there was talk of someone breakin’ into your house, movin’ your stuff around, and no culprit to be found. Now, I don’t want to say the girl’s not in her right mind, but ever since she came back from the city those calls got worse and worse, and—”</p><p>“If you couldn’t find a culprit, maybe that’s a shortcoming on <em>your</em> part,” John cut in over him sharply. It was one thing to sit there and listen to Scarlet criticize <em>him</em>; another to listen to someone like <em>Jim Pritchard, </em>whoever-the-fuck-he-was, talk about Elliot like she was a mental patient, haunted by mere spectres and spirits. And besides: he didn’t need Pritchard to like him. “Surely it can’t be the fault of the victim that the local police force can’t do their fucking job?”</p><p>Sheriff Pritchard looked at him, eyes narrowed into little gemlike slits. “Out-of-towners always think they know what’s best, Mr. Seed. The fact is, you don’t know hardly anything at all.”</p><p>The insinuation was enough to make John’s jaw clench. <em>I know, </em>he thought viciously, <em>I know my fucking wife, you inbred, I know her more than anyone else and that includes you, <strong>especially</strong> you, you fucking nothing-nobody—</em></p><p>“My <em>wife,”</em> he bit out, “was approached by a stranger who shouldn’t have known anything about her, in the middle of the night, on a <em>private road, </em>and they knew about her being with child<em>. </em>She could have been assaulted, or worse. Are you going to take my fucking statement, or just stand there like a lemming?”</p><p>“Lots of strangers wanderin’ around Weyfield this time of year, John,” Pritchard said, utilizing his first name with an infuriating kind of familiarity that he didn’t deserve. “I’ve got Federal agents showin’ up out of nowhere, people complainin’ about seein’ things at night. This is but one of many aspects of my job.”</p><p><em>Federal agents </em>was enough to make John’s mouth snap shut. It wasn’t like he thought that the government wouldn’t be looking for Elliot, because she had clearly departed on terms that hadn’t been theirs; mostly, he thought, <em>I don’t want fucking Burke showing up here.</em></p><p>“And what do these Federal agents have to say,” John ventured after a moment, “concerning the strange women accosting Elliot in the middle of the night?”</p><p>The man opened his mouth to reply; before he could, his eyes flickered from John to the staircase behind him. When John turned, he saw Elliot standing there, red hair damp and pulled to the side and a knee-length robe cinched around her waist. Her expression was pulled with exhaustion, but there was a bit more clarity now.</p><p>Selfishly, his gaze darted down her throat to her sternum. There was not a single lick of the scar exposed; the fabric of the robe kept it comfortably covered.</p><p>“Hi, Mr. Pritchard,” Elliot said, reaching the bottom of the stairs. “Hope you didn’t come out here just because mama bullied you.”</p><p>“Worried about you, is all,” the sheriff replied casually, like he hadn’t been completely disregarding her panic moments before. “Like the new hair, Elli.” His eyes slide to John. “New husband’s still up for debate.”</p><p>Elliot’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “John’s just protective,” she replied after a moment, coming to stop beside him. The smell of her shampoo wafted stronger than the scent of the snow and pines outside, which tended to stick to her like a second skin. “Stranger’s been wandering up and down our road, and a—” She paused, swallowing. “A baby on the way.”</p><p>“That’s what <em>I’ve</em> been saying,” Scarlet insisted. “All of that nonsense from before doesn’t apply, you know, Jim. There’s bigger things going on.”</p><p>There was a flicker of hurt that crossed Elliot’s face at the words. What John had read of her in the file—what he’d been able to really sink his teeth into—he had an idea of what this was referring to. Though Elliot had never expressed it in detail to him, there was enough from her therapist’s notes, and from the way she’d been that night, after Kian, for him to make an inference.</p><p><em>Nothing, </em>she’d said, grinding the words out, <em>you don’t get to do anything.</em></p><p>It wasn’t something that should have been described as <em>all of that nonsense, </em>but it was, and Elliot cleared her throat.</p><p>“Sorry you came all the way out,” she said. “If it’s alright, I’ll just swing by tomorrow. Can’t say I’m of much use right now.”</p><p>Pritchard’s mouth pressed into a thin line, wry with amusement. “You’ve got your mama’s delicate constitution, huh?”</p><p><em>Hardly, </em>John thought, even as Elliot said, “Yes, sir.”</p><p>“Well, I’ve got Luke and the other fellas posted at the end of your drive,” Pritchard said, exhaling as he made his way to the door. “You holler if that stranger comes around, alright? We’ll keep our eyes peeled.” And then, reiterating the same sentiment as before: “Lots of strangers wanderin’ around Weyfield this time of year.”</p><p>Tightly, John said, “Let us know if you get any clarification on that matter.”</p><p>Sheriff Pritchard looked at him with the kind of long-suffering look that he was sure was only saved for the most insufferable of conversational partners and tipped his hat.</p><p>“Evenin’,” Pritchard replied, “Mr. Seed.”</p><p>It was possible that Pritchard had heard Scarlet using his last name. It <em>was</em> possible, but following the casual mention of Federal agents, John could not shake the feeling that it had been intentional; he barely heard Pritchard bidding goodnight to Scarlet and Elliot, barely heard the door clicking and Scarlet fussing about how they’d been entirely unhelpful considering she had a Christmas party coming up soon.</p><p>“You’re fussing, and for nothing,” Elliot was telling her, even as John watched the squad car roll down the drive and park at the end. “Everyone will still come to your Christmas party.”</p><p>“I just hate that he brought up that nasty business,” Scarlet replied, wringing her hands. “He’s got no right. He was useless.”</p><p>“I know, mama.”</p><p><em>I’ve got Federal agents showing up out of nowhere, </em>Pritchard had said, and then used his last name like he knew it. <em>Really</em> knew it.</p><p>“Should sleep,” John announced, looking at Elliot now as he shook off the strange, prickling dread. “It’s late.”</p><p>Elliot regarded him curiously. Her skin had a healthy flush to it now, different from the way it looked when she’d been standing out in the cold, and the way she’d said <em>John’s just protective</em> had made his stomach wrench pleasantly. For a second, it had felt like they were on the same team.</p><p>Maybe, in this case, they were.</p><p>“Get some sleep, mama,” Elliot said, turning back to the stairs. “I’ll run by the station in the morning. Mr. Pritchard said they’ll leave those boys at the end. Everything’s fine.”</p><p>Scarlet frowned, and did not move from her spot. “I’ll stay up a while yet, I think.”</p><p>“Okay, mama.”</p><p>“Just to make sure it’s alright.”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>John trailed after Elliot up the stairs, but not after double-checking the lock on the front door. What if Burke <em>was</em> there? What if Burke was snooping around? He’d certainly had a chance to go over Elliot’s file, back before all of this had happened; what if he knew where she’d visited, growing up? Knew where her mother traveled to for warmer weather, where her grandparents had lived? What if the woman in the street had been one of <em>his?</em></p><p>There were too many variables for him to muddle through them properly. Nothing a good night’s sleep, perhaps a call back home, wouldn’t fix.</p><p>In fact, if Elliot would just <em>go home, </em>that would solve their problem entirely.</p><p>Like old habit, he moved through the motions of getting upstairs and into the bedroom, where Boomer had dutifully waited for them—certainly by Elliot’s behest. He couldn’t even enjoy the process of stripping down to his underwear and climbing into her bed, but as soon as she slid beneath the covers next to him, his eyes drifted to her.</p><p>“Not going to take your robe off?” he asked, turning onto his side to look at her. She closed her eyes.</p><p>“I cannot <em>believe</em> that is the first thing you say to me after that big show you put on down there.”</p><p>“What show?” he asked indignantly. “The man was insinuating you were some kind of unstable psycho, and barely doing his job. Fuck him.”</p><p>A short, bitter laugh billowed out of her. In the dark of the room, only slivers of moonlight cutting through the curtains and illuminating the smooth planes of her jaw, her neck, down further still until it reached the unruly obstacle of her robe—he felt the want curling there, at the base of his spine.</p><p>“Pritchard <em>does</em> think I’m crazy,” she said after a moment, raking her fingers through her hair. Loose little strands of ember grazed the tops of her cheekbones; for the first time since arriving, John thought about how pronounced they’d become, the exact opposite of what he’d expect given that she was carrying their child. “But he always has. Ever since—”</p><p>She stopped. Her mouth clamped shut, and it seemed like she was considering ending the conversation. <em>There’s no reason to keep it a secret, </em>he wanted to tell her, <em>no reason, not when I’ve read and reread your file, memorized every line from your journal, gone over the doctor’s reports and the notes from your instructors at the Academy. No use in hiding it from me.</em></p><p>Instead of elaborating, she said, “You didn’t have to defend me like that, you know.”</p><p>“Of course I did,” John replied without hesitation, eyes narrowing. “I wasn’t going to stand around while he talked about you like you were some psych ward breakout.”</p><p>Elliot’s gaze darted to him. <em>Got you, </em>that little monster inside of him said, pleased with the way color flooded her cheeks as she sank back against her pillow, her fingers pulling absently at the duvet cover. <em>Bet you forgot I know just what you want, that I’ll give it to you. If you’ll let me.</em></p><p>“Maybe I <em>am</em> crazy,” she told him, fixing him with her eyes, “did you ever think about that?”</p><p>He turned, propping himself up on an arm to look at her fully, despite how much she squirmed when he did. But her eyes did come back to him; after whatever it was she’d seen out there, in the snow and the dark, in the shadows, it must have felt <em>good, </em>to be around someone who understood the things that haunted her.</p><p>Reaching out and watching her blink rapidly, his fingers brushing her jawline, John said, “I’ve never thought that about you.”</p><p>“Don’t lie.”</p><p>“I’m not. Not even when you were spitting mad.” His gaze skimmed her face. “Are you going to tell me what you saw? Out there, tonight?”</p><p>Elliot swallowed thickly. Her eyes flickered away; desperate to stop looking at him, desperate to hide whatever images haunted her even now, even as she sat awake. Drawing his eyes downward, where the folding of the neckline of her robe <em>almost almost but not quite not nearly</em> revealed the scar, John reiterated, “I <em>don’t</em> think you’re crazy, hellcat.”</p><p>The pet name slipped out without him having given it much thought; though he’d said it a few times since his arrival, it felt different now, saying it just there between them in the dark.</p><p>“You would,” Elliot whispered; he swept the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, felt the way it trembled when she spoke, “if I told you.”</p><p>Her lips parted; to take a breath, to prepare to say something, but John could only think of the way she’d slid his thumb past her lips that night, the way she’d moaned around him and dug her nails into his skin, the velvet of her tongue brushing against him and—</p><p>And he didn’t want to mess it up. Elliot would spook just like that, without trying very hard, and he didn’t want her to; he didn’t want to take the way her eyes dragged down to his mouth as more than what it was, didn’t want to think it was an invite where there was none. But he did <em>want, </em>did feel it hot and fetid and breathing down the back of his neck like a beast that had been there waiting, all along.</p><p>John shifted against the pillow, skimming his fingers from her mouth up her cheekbone for as long as she would let him. Silken strands of hair tangled around his fingers when he reached the tip of her jawline, and for a moment he was content with that—with <em>touch.</em> He knew how much it meant to her. He knew how much it meant to <em>both</em> of them, that she would sit still long enough to let his hands explore, even just this much.</p><p>“I wouldn’t,” he said again, the volume of his voice drifting softer than before, “and I don’t, Ell. You know that I understand—maybe I’m the only one.”</p><p>She was <em>so. Close. </em>Close, and begging to be kissed—her mouth, the blue veins of her throat; dreadfully, wretchedly unattended to, having not bore the mark of his mouth and teeth for so long. It was criminal. If he wanted to, John could still remember the way she sounded when he—</p><p>“John,” she murmured, her voice hitching and breaking prettily, just the way that he liked, and that vicious spark of want, searing, drove straight up the center of his spine. His fingers splayed against the pillar of her throat, watching the way her lashes fluttered and her lips parted.</p><p><em>I especially won’t tolerate it from the likes of you. </em>Scarlet’s voice rattled viciously in his head. <em>Fuck you, </em>he thought, eyes fixed on the jump of Elliot’s pulse under his fingers, on the part of her lips, the sweet cupid’s bow of her mouth <em>pleading </em>for his attention.</p><p>“Can’t get enough of you,” John said. His words came out sounding foreign, husky and rough with want, the pad of his thumb dragging down the front of her throat down into the hollow. His gaze flickered up to hers, inquisitive, as he pulled the fabric of her robe down just a little, barely a centimeter.</p><p>Only the top of her scar was visible, the thin layer where the skin had gone white in healing and not stayed as pink as the rest. The towel's fabric was pliable and loose, <em>entreating</em> that he push it down more, further and further, and beckoning him closer until he could brush his mouth against it.</p><p>“You—” Elliot’s words stopped. The way her eyes flickered was almost dreamy; her hand came up to his wrist, gripping. In the dark, it was intimate, this kind of move—it wasn’t for show, not even to prove something to <em>herself</em>, but grounding. A divining rod. “You can—this time, I’ll let you—”</p><p>His breath caught pleasantly in his chest, letting the pressure of Elliot’s fingers on his wrist guide it downwards, pulling the fabric of the robe with it—<em>down down down,</em> until the entirety of the scar was revealed to him. It had healed beautifully, perfectly, and Elliot’s hand dropped from his wrist. It felt like an allowance. </p><p><em>You can,</em> she’d said, and John skimmed the pads of his fingers along the sharp lines of the W, stopping at a spot where the line of the scar broke for a tiny sliver of unscarred skin.</p><p>He thought: <em>mine,</em> as he watched the rise and fall of her breaths and the way the moonlight cut over his shoulder to illuminate half of the scar, each thin line. He thought, <em>mine, </em> when she let out a tremulous breath, those baby-fine lashes brushing the tops of her cheekbones.</p><p>“You squirmed,” he commented, pressing down on the spot where the scar tissue disappeared. “Here. Where it breaks.”</p><p>“I remember,” she replied. She sounded a little dazed, wetting her lips absently. John watched her brows knit together in frustration; like she was willing herself not to say the thing that she wanted to, even as he leaned in, even as he traced the dip of the <em>W</em> with his fingers, even as their noses brushed.</p><p>Swallowing, Elliot said, “I don’t like looking at it.”</p><p>“Makes you hungry,” John murmured. He felt his voice pitch low on instinct, desirous. <em>I want my mouth on you, </em>said the covetous thing inside of him, so close their lips were almost brushing. “Doesn’t it?”</p><p>Her eyes flickered, closing. Bracing herself. Retreating to someplace else—somewhere she could pretend like she didn’t love him, somewhere she could pretend that she didn’t think that the scar was beautiful, gorgeous, a testament of her suffering and of his love, and he wasn’t going to let her. Not this time, not again. <em>No more running from me.</em></p><p>John said, grinding her name out between his teeth, crushing the bones of it against her skin, <em>“Elliot.”</em></p><p>“Yes,” she bit out. The word sparked, a matchstick lit in a room where the air was three-parts gasoline, equally mournful and furious with him, at him. “It makes me—”</p><p>She stopped again. <em>Say it,</em> he thought, <em>say it, I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you acknowledge what I did, what we did—to you, together.</em></p><p>“Hungry,” Elliot finished, reaching up as though to push his hand from her, “for you.”</p><p>He kissed her there, like that, his palm against her sternum and his fingers splaying against the base of her throat, and her fingers wrapped around his wrist to revisit old scars she’d left; he kissed her the way that he felt, <em>hungry</em>, and when she shifted between the pillow and him, it wasn’t to push him away but to knot in his hair, grabbing a fistful of it and holding him to her, like it had been a trap all along. Not that he would have wanted to let go; not that he wouldn’t have gladly choked himself just like this, lip-locked and gripped by his wife, his love, his very own <em>Wrath—</em></p><p>Elliot’s lips parted beneath his, startlingly obedient, and a soft, desperate noise came out of her—it was trapped between them; from where his hand had laid against the scar across her chest, it now slipped upward to cup at the hollows, fingers splaying from one dip of her jawbone to the other. John had thought about this so many times, while they were apart—the way she sounded, the way she tasted, the way it felt when she finally, <em>finally</em> relinquished that last thread of control to him. The air felt hot, <em>too </em>hot and thick, like it was dragging against his skin with every single movement.</p><p>The kiss broke for a second. He didn't pull back, not that much, but he left enough room that he could drag the pad of his thumb across her lip and watch the way her chin lifted<em>—</em>just a little, <em>just so</em>, the tiniest little act of defiance.</p><p>When he leaned in again, Elliot tilted her face and squirmed, pulling herself just out of reach of his mouth.</p><p>“Happy to see some things haven't changed for you,” he rumbled, his voice coming out dark with want. “For <em>us.”</em></p><p>“That was your freebie,” she replied. John was pleased to hear that she sounded a little breathless; it was more than she'd given him the entire time they'd been reunited, at least. </p><p>Making an inquisitive noise, he leaned in, nosing the slope of her jaw. When she didn't pull away, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the warm skin there, and the redhead made a soft noise, shifting where she lay back against the pillows. <em>So good,</em> that little voice inside of him said, <em>so good all mine.</em></p><p>Elliot added, “Your <em>only</em> freebie,” in what he could only assume was an attempt to sound threatening. But it wasn't, really, even knowing her as he did<em>—</em>and he <em>did</em> know her, because she sighed prettily when he dragged his teeth against her pulse point and she dug her nails into his wrist.</p><p>“Ell,” he murmured into her skin, “tell me what you want me to do.”</p><p>“I <em>want,” </em>she ground out, “for you to stop <em>fucking</em> with me.”</p><p>“And that's all?” He made a low noise against the crook of her neck. It was almost unbearable<em>—</em>only one single layer of fabric still hiding her from him, and the way her breath pulled her tight and tense, the tremble of skin where her jaw and throat met begging for his attention. John let his mouth drift lower, brushing the top of the scar decorating her sternum. “You don't want a <em>freebie?”</em></p><p>“I—” Her voice failed, stammering to a halt as John’s mouth drifted lower, reverently tracing the slope of her sternum and the scar, <em>their scar.</em> “John—”</p><p>“Missed the way you say my name,” he said into her skin, “you have no idea how much—”</p><p>“I do,” Elliot managed, the words unspoken: <em>I do have an idea</em>. The shake in her voice had him lifting his eyes to her; pressure at the back of his head, where her hand had knotted, guided him forward, closing the last of the distance between their bodies. She said, “You make me so—fucking <em>mad—</em>”</p><p>She kissed <em>him, </em>then, less obedient this time, her teeth digging into his lower lip and making him moan. When she shifted beneath him, her free hand gliding along his chest, he said, “I thought I only got one freebie?”</p><p>“Shut up,” she murmured against his mouth. “If you keep talking, you’re going to draw attention, and—”</p><p>“And you don’t want that?” John prompted. He tugged at the tie of her robe, and when she didn’t pull away, he slipped the tie undone completely, smoothing his hand up beneath the fabric to brush to the side. “You don’t want <em>attention, </em>Ell?”</p><p>The redhead swallowed thickly. He could feel the goosebumps spread on her skin. “I told you to stop fucking with me.”</p><p>John skimmed his mouth down from hers, down her sternum to trace the <em>WRATH</em> scar reverently with his tongue and lower still—lower until he could press his mouth to the slope of her hip, mouthing the scars he had memorized times before, digging his fingers in a little until she made a noise.</p><p>“I think you <em>do</em> want attention,” he rumbled, going lower and lower still, pulling the blankets with him. “Particularly—”</p><p>Her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling a little, and still his movements. He lifted his eyes to her expectantly.</p><p>“You—” Elliot wet her lips. “Y-You—You don’t have—”</p><p><em>You don’t have to. </em>Just like before. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes; it was something close to agony, to be so close without having it, nestled between her legs with the robe barely clinging to her body, after all this time. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh and half-sighed, half-moaned just there into her skin.</p><p>“Want to,” he told her, “I want to so fucking badly, won’t you let me take care of you?” John sidled further up. “You can take whatever you need from me, Ell—and I think what you <em>need</em> is a warm mouth to c—”</p><p>“<em>Fuck, </em> just—” Her voice broke prettily. “Just—fine, take c-care of—”</p><p>In any other circumstance, John thought he might have spent more time coaxing it out of her; he thought he might have spent more time making her ask for it, use her manners, any variation of it. <em>Beg</em> him for it. He knew that she could; she’d said <em>please</em> to him more than once, and so nicely—to hear her say, <em>please, John, please take care of me</em> would have made it all the sweeter.</p><p>This was not one of those times.</p><p>The second he pressed his mouth to her, he moaned into her—gripped her hips and dragged the flat of his tongue against her until she whimpered, the sound so dulcet and sweet he almost thought she hadn’t made it herself: but it <em>was</em> her, and her fingers knotted and twisted a little harder in his hair, and John could feel the strain of her hips against his hands a little, desperate to garner some friction.</p><p><em>Fuck, </em>he thought, smoothing his thumb over the slope of her hip as he measured the movements of his tongue in slow, even strokes, <em>fuck, so good, so good for me, knew she couldn’t fucking stay that mad at me for this long, knew she’d be mine mine mine—</em></p><p>Elliot said, “John,” her voice hitching into a whine so pretty he thought he’d do just about anything to hear it again. A hungry sound escaped him; slowing his movements to as tortuous of a crawl as he could stand just to feel her squirm against his grip. It wasn’t until he pulled back, pressing two fingers into her, that she <em>moaned, </em>trying to stifle the sound between her teeth. Just knowing that she was trying to be quiet was enough to make the heat sprint up his spine, blooming fresh want behind his eyes.</p><p><em>“Fuck,”</em> John ground out between his teeth, “that <em>is</em> all you needed, isn’t it?”</p><p>The redhead shifted again, biting back a whimper when he beckoned his fingers against her. “Are you going to fuck me?” Her voice edged on breathless, brows pulling together as she dug her nails into the soft skin at the base of his neck. “Or <em>what?”</em></p><p>“What’s the rush?” he murmured huskily. “I like you just like this—”</p><p>And then she pulled <em>hard, </em>tugging him forward until their noses could brush again, until her fingers were digging at the last scrap of fabric between them and she was kissing him, sharper and less forgiving.</p><p>“Brat,” he managed out, but it was hard to focus around anything except the feel of her, the taste of her, the way she arched up against him impatiently and coaxed a low, wrecked sound out of him—even around the spike of frustration. “Baby wants everything her way and can’t—fucking <em>behave</em>.”</p><p>Elliot’s teeth snagged his lip, harder than before, flooding his mouth with the taste of copper. For a second, her hands fluttered—unsure of where to land, pressing up against him until he snagged her by the crook of her leg and tugged it up around his hip, <em>closecloseclose</em>—</p><p>A sweet, desperate little whine came out of her just as he pressed into her, his free hand gripping the top of the headboard—it was a <em>tight</em> fit, his movements stilling as slick, wet heat completely overtook his senses, the pain spiking dulcet and wanton when she twisted her fingers viciously in his hair.</p><p>This close, there was nothing else to think about; only Elliot, only the sounds she made as he settled on a pace that was somehow slower than he wanted and not slow <em>enough.</em> John pulled back just enough to slide his hand up the pillar of her throat, and when he did, her eyes refocused on his, fluttering as she breathed out his name.</p><p>“<em>Oh,”</em> and her words came out in a desperate little moan, pitching high and pretty just the way he liked, “John—”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s—” His breath hitched in his chest, pleasure flashing white-hot up his spine. “That’s all I—<em>fuck</em>, you feel so good—so fucking—just wanted those eyes on me, baby, just like this—”</p><p>The world twisted for a second; Elliot had leaned forward, shifting her way to roll him onto his back and settle herself straddling his hips. The change in position was enough to make John forget, if he was thinking at all, about the fact that he ought to try to be quiet; Elliot’s fingers gripped his wrist, guiding his hand to her hip, and the moment she canted her hips against his, he had to bite down on the swear coming out of his mouth.</p><p><em>Too good, </em>the thought permeating the dreamy haze in his brain as Ell dictated a new pace, a new rhythm. <em>Gotta slow it—</em></p><p>“Fuck,” she breathed out. Her breath hitched as she settled against him, gliding her hand down his chest. “Feel so good, John—”</p><p>“You’ve <em>got—” </em>John gritted his teeth together, free hand departing the grip it had on the headboard to instead grip her hip. “<em>Got</em> to fucking—r-relax, Ell—”</p><p>“Why?” There was something a little wicked, a little wretched and petulant, in her voice. “I thought you liked—liked what a <em>tight</em> <em>fit—”</em></p><p>The words sent an all-new spike of pleasure dripping molten-hot in the pit of his stomach, squirming and writhing. He felt his eyes flutter, blinking the vision of Elliot—the robe slinking into the crooks of her elbows, coppery hair spilling over her shoulder, the <em>WRATH </em>scar cutting across her sternum—in and out of his mind.</p><p>“Slow. Down,” he managed out between his teeth.</p><p>Elliot leaned down, the silk of the robe rustling as she did, and she whimpered; here, he could grab her hips and drive up into her, all wet-heat and the sweet sound of her desperation overwhelming his senses.</p><p>“Or—” Her breath hitched and she moaned, the sound trapped between them. “—<em>what?”</em></p><p><em>Fuckfuckfuckfuck, </em>it was too good and too much and too soon, his vindictive, vicious wife, knowing exactly how much she could get away with and pushing it anyway. Her fingers knotted again in his hair and pulled hard enough to send prickles of pain racing through his scalp, down his spine and straight into <em>want.</em></p><p>“Holy shit—” He groaned, burying his face into her neck and finding a spot there to glide his teeth against. “Got my mouth on you and—still got a fucking attitude problem—”</p><p>She shifted against him, a sweet, wrecked little sound coming out of her, drawing her <em>tighttighttight </em>until he thought he was going to be finished right then and there. The only thing that kept him grounded, perhaps, was pulling back to look at her as his hand slid between them.</p><p>Breathlessly, and scrabbling for a little last bit of an upperhand, John said, “Like that, Ell? Like when I tell you what a brat you are—”</p><p>No time for re-memorizing her scars now. No time for anything except watching the way her lashes fluttered when his hand found its mark, gliding his thumb against the neediest part of her so that her movements stuttered.</p><p>“—and how I think you just need me to <em>fuck</em> it out of you?” A grin, quick and wicked, split across his face, just before Elliot slapped her hand down over his mouth and buried her face into his neck as her finish hit—and <em>then</em> it was too much, the way her hand slid from his mouth to his shoulder to dig her nails into the skin of his shoulder, the way she squirmed and tensed and tightened around him, moaning <em>yesyesyes John yes please make me come please</em> into the skin of his neck.</p><p>His own unraveling hit hard, and quicker still than he would have liked. However long they’d spent apart was too long to go without her taste and her sound and the <em>feel</em> of her; her name escaped his mouth like prayer as the pleasure sparked violent and bright behind his eyes, his hands gripping her hips to keep her there.</p><p><em>Mine, </em>John thought dreamily through the wanton haze, shifting and pressing up deeper with a petulant sort of pleasure racing through him. <em>Knew you would be, knew you were. Always have been mine.</em></p><p>There were a few seconds of Elliot catching her breath, squirming atop him and straightening up into a sitting position. Even in the dark he could see the flush flooding her cheeks; she absently pulled the robe up to her shoulders again, as though he weren’t still buried inside of her.</p><p>“Should have said,” she managed out after a moment, sweeping the hair from her face, “that you were going to come inside me.”</p><p>John let out a quick, abrupt laugh at the absurdity of her words. “What, worried you’re going to get pregnant?”</p><p>The redhead rolled her eyes and then rocked her hips, making him hiss.</p><p>“No,” she replied, eyes narrowed. “Just prefer you begging for it.” And then, like an afterthought: “But you already knew that.”</p><p>His hands slide up beneath the robe where she’d tied it around her waist. He dug his fingers into her hips, tasting the blood in his mouth from where she’d bitten his lip too hard.</p><p><em>Yes. </em>John tugged her down by the tie of her robe, guiding her back to his mouth to kiss her.</p><p>
  <em>I did.</em>
</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>It was the sound of a phone ringing that first jostled Elliot out of her sleep.</p><p>There wasn’t a lot of time to figure out what it was that was going on; she lurched into a sitting position at the sound, jostling John awake at the same time from the abrupt movement.</p><p>“Fuck,” he said groggily, reaching for the phone he’d left on the nightstand. She blinked blearily, shivering as a waft of air colder than what it had been under the blanket hit her bare skin. There was a pleasant, dull ache in her body, reminding her of the decision-making that had taken place last night—or rather, the <em>lack of</em> decision making that had happened, anyway.</p><p>“Who is it?” Elliot asked, her voice coming out hoarse and rough from sleep. Sliding back against the pillows and under the comforter again, she watched John’s expression slowly become more and more concerned as a voice she didn’t recognize—a lighter, more feminine one—spoke on the other end of the call.</p><p>After a moment, John cleared his throat and said, “It’s for you.”</p><p>She stared at him. Her eyes narrowed, her expression hardening. Not even a single day after he’d gotten in her bed and he was already trying to play some kind of mindfuck with her?</p><p>But it <em>wasn’t</em> that—John’s expression was thoroughly displeased. It was someone he <em>didn’t</em> want her to talk to.</p><p>“I don’t want to talk with your brothers,” she told him firmly. “Or anyone that’s—I don’t want to talk to anyone.”</p><p>He cleared his throat again, sitting up and scratching his cheek. He said, “Give me a minute, Isolde,” and hit mute on the phone call, turning now to look at Elliot, his gaze searching her face.</p><p>“Isolde?” she prompted, eyes narrowing. “Are you going to elaborate?”</p><p>“Listen, Ell—”</p><p>“No,” she snapped. “I don’t <em>want</em> to <em>talk</em> to—”</p><p>“Staci Pratt is with her,” her interrupted, cutting in over her, “and he wants to talk to you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'm on <a href="consumedkings.tumblr.com">tumblr!</a> come hang!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. the kind of love we gather</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Alive, I could never escape your love."<br/>William Butler Yeats, Calvary</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is an interlude chapter, a little flashback/prelude going through isolde and joseph's relationship--or, at least, a significant part of it (still some secrets to be discovered!). i've had this chapter drawn up for a while and i thought this would be a great cliffhanger/changing point in the story to give their relationship and their dynamic a little more context, so i hope that's alright with y'all!</p>
<p>some of you folks who follow me on tumblr make recognize a part of this chapter as a smut oneshot i wrote for them; that was the alternate universe to this instance in time, which is firmly rooted in their canon. lmao</p>
<p>it should go without saying that i have yeeted canon out the window for all of ancient names and witching hour, and the way that the seed brothers were pre-reaping and hope county is subject to much the same.</p>
<p>warnings for this chapter: there is an interaction with an abusive ex-husband that eludes to physical/domestic violence. also, i think it's fair to warn against joseph himself--whatever argument there is to be had about the sincerity of his feelings, there's a few times where it feels like there's definitely some emotional manipulation happening.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="align-center">—<em>Before</em>—</p>
<p>The first time that Isolde saw Joseph, she knew she was in for it.</p>
<p>If he had been any other man, she thought, it wouldn’t have been so clearly a disaster waiting to happen. She would have been able to crash and burn with him as she pleased: but he wasn’t just any other man. He was <em>John</em>’s <em>man,</em> his older brother, the one that he tried so hard to live up to and impress. She had only heard of him in passing, but that was all it had taken. Isolde knew exactly how John felt about him.</p>
<p>“Who is <em>that?”</em> she asked, when she spotted the cleanly dressed man across the room. The office was dimly lit with the lights lowered; people mingled and chatted, drinks in hand, as everyone celebrated that they’d been able to move into a nice, new office downtown, with a whole floor to themselves.</p>
<p>John’s gaze followed hers. His expression flattened. “Stop it.”</p>
<p><em>No fun. </em>Isolde feigned innocence. “Stop what?”</p>
<p>“That’s my brother Joseph, Sol,” he hissed. “Do <em>not</em> try to <em>fuck </em>my <em>brother.</em>”</p>
<p>“You have a couple, don’t you?” she asked. “What’s the one?”</p>
<p>“Fuck off.”</p>
<p>She sighed, taking a sip of her drink. Just her luck. A <em>Seed boy, </em>and yet, so fine. What a waste. “Fine, Johnny,” she said, patting his shoulder. Across the room, she saw Joseph’s gaze land on hers as he politely smiled at one of the other partygoers, and then stay locked, right on her. “I won’t fuck your <em>very hot</em> brother, who is very plainly making eyes at me from across the room.”</p>
<p>“He’s never had great taste in women.” John grimaced. “Off-limits, Isolde, I mean it.”</p>
<p>“Scout’s honor.”</p>
<p><em>So much for that, anyway, </em>she thought later, when Joseph crossed the party and made his way up to her. He was even <em>more</em> handsome up close, and though long hair wasn’t typically her type, it looked good on him, pulled back and slick. Just enough to look polished.</p>
<p>“You’re Isolde?” Joseph asked, and his eyes swept over her. “That doesn’t seem right.”</p>
<p>“Are you the authority on Isoldes?” she replied. She arched a brow loftily at him. “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of an expert.”</p>
<p>“Well, it’s just that John rarely complains about beautiful women,” he countered easily, the flirtation slipping so seamlessly from his mouth that she might have missed it. “They’re his greatest vice. Yet, he complains incessantly about you.” He paused. “I’m Joseph, his brother.”</p>
<p>That did sound like John. Isolde wrangled a smile, leaned comfortably back against the wall as Joseph sidled over to her. With him in front of her, he almost completely eclipsed out the rest of the party, like he’d suddenly bubbled her and it was just the two of them in the entire room. He was so very <em>good</em> at that—with his eyes on her, it felt as though nobody else in the entire world existed.</p>
<p>“I’m flattered,” she murmured, “that I’ve managed to break John of his greatest vice.”</p>
<p>“I did come to thank you for that.” Joseph’s mouth ticked up into a smile, almost playful, if the rich timbre of his voice wasn’t so soothing. “And for taking good care of John. He’s a...”</p>
<p>Isolde watched Joseph through her lashes. He had no alcohol in his hands, but kept them tucked easily into the pockets of his slacks; he held himself without the easy arrogance that John carried himself. It was more like Joseph knew, exactly, his place in the world, and so didn’t feel the need to assert it. It simply <em>was.</em></p>
<p>“Handful,” Isolde supplied.</p>
<p>“That’s a good way to put that,” he agreed. A quiet moment stretched between them—an easy silence, and she got the impression that it was going to be like this with him; no pressure to fill the silences—before she shifted on her feet.</p>
<p>“So, how are you going to do it?” she asked him, taking a sip of her drink. Joseph’s gaze, which had drifted to where John was chatting with Jacob and another guest, flickered back to her. The inquisitive tilt of his head followed after, and when she didn’t supply further questioning, he didn’t bother smothering the amused little smile on his face.</p>
<p>“Do what?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Thank me.”</p>
<p>The smile didn’t quite leave his face yet. “Didn’t John give <em>you</em> the same speech about how off-limits we are to each other?”</p>
<p>“Well,” Isolde relented, “whatever is he going to complain about if his brother doesn’t take me out for dinner? I’d be failing him as his vice breaker if I didn’t keep my game fresh.”</p>
<p>“Is that what I’m doing to thank you, then?”</p>
<p>Joseph’s voice was a low, rich sound, rumbling straight through her, vibrating in the cavity of her chest. She thought, instantly, that she’d like to know what it felt like to have him say her name into her skin. Isolde’s lashes fluttered; she hummed thoughtfully and polished off the last of her wine.</p>
<p><em>Dinner isn’t sex,</em> she reasoned. <em>So technically, I’m not really breaking John’s little agreement.</em></p>
<p>“It’s an option,” she offered after a moment. And then, in an act of what John would surely describe later as pure spite for his well-being and mental health: “Though you’re welcome to do more, if you feel inclined.”</p>
<p>This finally (<em>finally</em>, a part of her said) elicited a laugh out of Joseph. His eyes slipped from hers, lingering on her mouth before pulling away to the rest of the party, almost reluctantly.</p>
<p>“Tomorrow,” he said after a moment. “Are you free?”</p>
<p>“<em>Technically </em>I’m working,” Isolde drawled, “but lucky for you, I’m the boss and I can make my own hours.”</p>
<p>“Lucky, indeed,” Joseph replied amusedly. “Six, then.”</p>
<p>“And don’t tell John,” Isolde said, as though making a pact. The man inclined his head a little, reaching up and sweeping a loose strand of hair behind her ear and made a low noise of agreement.</p>
<p>“And don’t tell John,” he reiterated. “Yet.”</p>
<p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p>
<p>“I asked you for <em>one</em> thing, Isolde!”</p>
<p>John was, as to be expected, upset.</p>
<p>“That’s not true,” Isolde defended, busying her hands with gathering up a few files and tucking them into her bag. “You ask me for a million things, every day. Namely, tolerating your ego. Not to mention keeping your head from exploding every time someone pays you a compliment, and—”</p>
<p>“You know what I mean.” John exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temples as though Isolde had inspired in him the greatest of headaches. She hoped that she had. It would be the least he could suffer, after all of the brainpower she had to expend on the daily to keep him in check.</p>
<p>Leaning back in her chair, Isolde said, “It was just dinner, John.”</p>
<p>“Do not pretend to be stupid all of a sudden,” John snapped. “Joseph does not <em>date around. </em>He doesn’t ever do something that’s <em>just dinner.</em>"</p>
<p>"Funny," she mused, "it feels like that's exactly what it was. Eating food together, at a restaurant, during the evening."</p>
<p>John’s head cocked to the side. He leveled her with a singular pointed look and said, “Oh, yeah?”</p>
<p>She squinted at him. “Yeah.”</p>
<p>“Is that so? Then what did you do <em>after</em> dinner, Isolde?” He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the wall as he waited for her answer. She kept her face wiped clear of emotions even though John’s question instantly inspired in her a flurry of memories; Joseph, snagging her hand on their way out of the restaurant, leaning in and kissing her; and kissing her, <em>and kissing her, </em>keeping her pulled close against him until she thought she was going to go dizzy from it all.</p>
<p>And then, well—</p>
<p>“We’re two consenting adults, John,” she said at last, and he threw up his hands.</p>
<p>“I <em>explicitly </em>said not to!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well!” There was no good excuse; she knew that. The excuse was that Joseph was incredibly attractive, and Isolde had wanted him, and so that had been the beginning and the end of it. Still, she kept her eyes on the paper in front of her. “I made that agreement before I got a good look at him. John, I’m actually trying to get some work done, so if you could—”</p>
<p>John scoffed. “One, Joseph is related to <em>me,</em> so of <em>course</em> he’s hot, and two—you’ve got the impulse control of a toddler. I hope you know that.”</p>
<p>He pushed off from the wall and started collecting his things to leave her office; a blissful departure, to be sure, but there was something sitting and stinging in the pit of her stomach that wouldn’t let her leave it to rest.</p>
<p>“Rich,” Isolde said demurely, “coming from the man who can’t stop an endless chain of making-up-breaking-up.”</p>
<p>His movements paused. He stared at her for a long moment, before he said. “Hey, Isolde?”</p>
<p>“Yes, John?”</p>
<p>“Fuck you.” John’s movements resumed to the door. “Fuck you, and see you in the conference room in twenty.” Another pause, and then thrown over his shoulder: “If you’re not too busy letting my brother—”</p>
<p>“Alright, point made!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “It’s <em>really</em> not anything serious. Okay? It was just dinner and a date, that’s all.”</p>
<p>This had him stopping again, paused in the doorway with a bit of frustration welling up in his voice when he said, “You don’t know my brother, Isolde.”</p>
<p>“But I know me. Alright?”</p>
<p>He sighed. “Yes, alright. Twenty minutes, then.”</p>
<p>For a moment, it felt like things had been settled between them. John was still young, she thought; younger than her, and the baby of his brothers, which she knew meant he held on tighter to things that maybe he needed to all the time. Too tight, or too loose, to make it hurt less when something didn’t work out.</p>
<p>But the peace only lasted for a moment, because a few minutes after John had settled back in behind his desk across the hall from her, their secretary came around the corner, her arms filled with a fragrant bouquet of lilies.</p>
<p>“Ms. Khan, you have an admirer!” she exclaimed delightedly. Isolde met John’s eyes across the hall, staring at her with an expression that could only have been described with the phrase <em>I told you so</em>. “It looks like they’re from a gentleman named Joseph S—”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Laura,” Isolde interrupted, clearing her throat. “You can set them on the table there, I’ll find them a vase.”</p>
<p>Laura nodded and smiled, laying the bouquet delicately on the coffee table and then making her way out of the office. Isolde left the flowers untouched for about an hour, unable to stand the thought of John catching her keeping them alive (because she would <em>never hear an end to it</em>), but it <em>was</em> killing her a little bit. She had mentioned once, in an off-hand comment, that she didn’t like the typical flower bouquets like red roses or carnations; lilies were her favorite. One tiny comment, and this was the result?</p>
<p>There was only a note with the flowers. It said, <em>Hoping John isn’t giving you too much trouble. Be by at six for you.</em></p>
<p>It felt a little treacherous; just enough to make it a <em>bit</em> harder to look at John with a serious face and not burst out laughing at the absurdity of their situation. Thankfully, close to the end of the day John made the dramatic announcement that he thought he was going to kill himself if he had to spend even another second sitting across from the elaborate bouquet.</p>
<p>“I’m going to go home,” he said, shrugging into his coat, “and try to retain at least half of my brain cells.”</p>
<p>Isolde <em>hmm’</em>d. “So just the one, then?</p>
<p>“Ha-ha. <em>Goodnight, </em>Sol.”</p>
<p>“Have a good night.”</p>
<p>It seemed like there were only a few moments of quiet between John’s departure and Joseph’s arrival, though in reality it had been a few hours; focusing felt like a chore, like it took a little extra work to get through the depositions she had to prepare and the emails she had to answer.</p>
<p><em>Just dinner</em>, she thought. <em>Just dinner and a date, and whatever happened after. And just one more date tonight. Not a big deal; adults go on dates all the time. I’m an adult. It’s fine.</em></p>
<p>But it wasn’t just that, because she was sure her heart rate had plateaued at a solid one hundred and ten since Joseph’s <em>I’ll pick you up from work </em>text. Because Isolde wasn’t the kind of woman who took a man back to her place on the first date, and <em>yet.</em></p>
<p>By the time Joseph <em>did</em> swing by to pick her up, John had been gone for a few hours and she’d gotten almost no work done, instead completely consumed by the predicament she’d planted herself in. It <em>did</em> break the rules to date Joseph. No business and pleasure, first and foremost. Normally, Isolde would have considered herself a woman of incredible discipline, able to turn down temptations of varying degrees—but when Joseph rolled through her office door with those stupid, <em>hot</em> yellow aviators on his face, she thought maybe she had overestimated herself.</p>
<p>“You look tired,” Joseph said lightly, brushing some snow out of his hair. Isolde’s expression flattened.</p>
<p>“Thanks, Romeo. ‘Hi, Isolde, how was your day?’ ‘Oh, just fine, except for your brother throwing a baby temper tantrum every five minutes’. ‘You poor thing, Isolde, but you have to tell me how you manage to be so exceptionally beautiful still’.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t say you didn’t look beautiful still,” he replied. His eyes followed her as she walked around her desk, having slid her coat on and collected her purse; they stayed trained on her all the way up to when there was no space left between them, until he was gazing at her with amusement dragging his mouth into a smile.</p>
<p>She said, lightly, “You didn’t say I was beautiful at all, actually.”</p>
<p>Joseph reached up. Though the room was empty of everyone except the two of them, somehow it still felt special when he looked at her—it still felt like nothing else in the entire world mattered to Joseph in that moment except for <em>her.</em> The pad of his thumb brushed her lower lip, his gaze drinking her in, admiring and hungry in equal amounts.</p>
<p>“You are,” he said, his voice low, the timbre of it rattling something animal inside of her. “Beautiful.”</p>
<p><em>Kiss me,</em> she wanted to say, because he was so close and yet seemed to refuse to actually finish the job. She didn’t think she could have mustered the words even if she wanted to; Joseph was a wildfire, eating up all the oxygen around her, sucking it right out of the air until there was nothing left but for her to feel <em>swallowed</em> by it.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t entirely truthful with you, the other night,” Joseph continued, dragging his thumb from her lip down to her jawline, “when I said that John’s greatest vice was beautiful women.” He paused, his head tilting. “They’re mine.”</p>
<p>Isolde’s lashes fluttered. She glanced up at him, and she said, “Well, that’s not the greatest sales pitch for yourself. How many red flags should I be looking for?”</p>
<p>He laughed and brushed his lips against her temple. “I get the feeling you won’t miss a single one.”</p>
<p>It shouldn’t have been quite so endearing, his casual reference to any red flags that he might have. Even his confidence that she’d pick them out (she would; if finding red flags was an Olympic sport, Isolde would have been a gold medalist) didn’t inspire the <em>greatest</em> feeling in her, though if she was playing devil’s advocate she knew that there were things about herself that didn’t make her so very well acquainted with healthy relationships.</p>
<p>“I’m glad I was able to come and pick you up today,” Joseph continued casually as they left her office and headed down the stairs. “It’s been snowing all afternoon. I’d hate for you to have to drive in this weather.”</p>
<p>And then he did things like <em>that</em>—uncharacteristically gentlemanly of him, to not want her to drive herself home in adverse weather. “I think I would have been fine,” Isolde replied. His fingers brushed hers at her side, snagging them and bringing them up to his mouth to kiss.</p>
<p>“Undoubtedly.”</p>
<p>It hadn’t been a lie, his remark about the snow. By the time they were pushing the doors to the lobby open, bidding the security officer goodnight, at least a solid foot of snow had collected and was pushed up against the lip of the sidewalk.</p>
<p>She grimaced. Winter was her least favorite season. <em>Holiday cheer</em> and <em>Isolde Khan </em>were not two concepts that melded well—not that she was a scrooge, per se, but with her only family halfway across the world and, on top, a tenuous relationship at best, it didn’t make Christmas very fun.</p>
<p>As they walked down the sidewalk, passing Joseph’s car in favor of pursuing a nearby restaurant, the blonde kept their fingers tangled together. The gesture was light, and didn’t demand anything, but it was <em>enough</em> to say something: <em>I want you close to me.</em></p>
<p>“Does your family come here for the holidays?” Joseph asked lightly, disentangling their hands in favor of giving her hip a squeeze, keeping his hand there as they drifted into a warmly-lit wine bar. “I remember you saying they live in Turkey.”</p>
<p>So Joseph <em>did</em> just have that good of a memory. She’d have to be more careful about the things she said to him. “No,” Isolde replied, desperate to steer the conversation elsewhere. “It’s too far. And I don’t go there.”</p>
<p>“Then what do you do on Christmas?” he prompted. He tugged a seat out for her at a spot farthest away from the door and then planted himself across from her, absently reading over the list of wines.</p>
<p>“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely. And then, in an effort to redirect, again: “<em>You</em>, if you’re around.”</p>
<p>Joseph’s gaze flickered up to hers from across the table. She could tell he was trying to stifle a smile. “You’d have to come all the way to Hope County if you had that penciled into your planner, Miss Khan.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Miss Khan, am I? We’re suddenly very formal with each other.” Isolde grinned. “And what does Joseph Seed, in Hope County, do on Christmas?”</p>
<p>“We haven’t spent many holidays together, but this year I’d like have a big family dinner on Christmas Eve, the handful of us.” He settled back in his chair a little, like he was getting ready to be there for a while. “Since John’s moved out here for work, Jacob’s been out of the country, and we only recently found each other again, we don’t get a lot of time together.” He shrugged. “And <em>you,</em> of course. If you’re around.”</p>
<p>Before she had an opportunity to respond, caught off guard by how easily he wielded her own flirtation against her, she felt a few bodies brush past their table and then pause, only to be followed by a dreadfully familiar voice: “Isolde?”</p>
<p>Something sharp and hot brought her pulse to a grinding stop—or it felt like it, anyway, like all of the breath had been sucked right out of her and she had ceased to be alive anymore, a cadaver sat up to play pretend like in those old photos. <em>No, </em>she thought when she felt a hand touch her shoulder, nausea welling up inside of her. <em>No, I don’t want this, not right now.</em></p>
<p>“It <em>is</em> you,” Alec said, his voice blooming with warmth. “I thought I recognized you. I know you like this spot.” His hand slid from her shoulder and she <em>felt</em>, without even looking at him, the way he turned his eyes to Joseph. “Who’s your friend?”</p>
<p>“Date,” Isolde bit out. “He’s my date.”</p>
<p>Her ex-husband let out what she could only describe as a <em>comical</em> exhale of breath. Joseph was watching her, inquisitive but ever-so-composed, before he turned his gaze politely to Alec and offered his hand.</p>
<p>“Joseph,” the blonde said. “It’s nice to meet you.”</p>
<p>The sight of the two men shaking hands made her want to puke. Everything Alec touched in her life was rotten, putrid—brimming with bile and spoiled, forever. She didn’t want it to be like that with Joseph, too.</p>
<p>Alec began, “I’m—”</p>
<p>“Alec is my ex-husband,” Isolde interrupted, her voice hard, punctuating each consonant of the words that came out of her mouth with violent intent.</p>
<p>Joseph settled back in his seat. Suddenly, Isolde was reminded that he had a penchant for remembering even the smallest throwaway details, and that she’d probably let him in on more than she would have liked about how her relationship had been with Alec without even saying anything. <em>Yes,</em> Isolde thought absently, her brain careening like a plane on fire as she watched Joseph fix his eyes on Alec, <em>yes, he can tell.</em></p>
<p>“Fresh on the dating scene, and only six months divorced,” Alec remarked lightly, his infuriatingly handsome face the only thing filling up her peripheral. “I’m happy for you, Isolde.”</p>
<p>“So leave,” Isolde snapped. She <em>finally</em> looked at him, <em>really</em> looked at him, and naturally he looked perfect; dark curls, stubble neatly trimmed, eyes bright and amused. There were a few thin, gossamer scars on his face from the last time they were together— but he must have paid quite a bit of money to smooth those out.</p>
<p>He lifted his hands in a show of surrender, his gaze sweeping over her. Just that one gesture felt like a violation—she wanted to smash his face into the table and tell him he didn’t get to even <em>look</em> at her anymore.</p>
<p>“Good luck with this one, Joe,” Alec said, his overly-familiar use of a nickname that Isolde had never heard anyone use with Joseph sticking to her ribs like a heavy dinner. “She’s a wicked little thing.”</p>
<p>“I think I’ll be fine,” Joseph replied serenely.</p>
<p>Alec paused; his gaze lingered on her neck and suddenly he was <em>grinning</em>. Isolde knew what it was he was looking at—a bruise, a remnant of the night before, left by Joseph.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Alec agreed, “it looks like you’ve already figured out how to handle her.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Who’s going to pity you? If you were me, you would have seen that you were begging for it. You fucking asked for it. </em>
</p>
<p>Isolde stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the wooden paneling of the floor. <em>Sick,</em> she thought, her stomach rolling. <em>I’m going to be sick.</em> “Leaving,” she managed out, only vaguely aware of Joseph also coming to a stand across from her, albeit more composed. “We’re leaving.”</p>
<p>
  <em>I’m your husband, Isolde. It means it’s my job to keep you in line. </em>
</p>
<p>“Not on my account, I hope,” Alec sighed. “You’ve always been so dramatic. Anyway, Joseph—a pleasure to meet you, and—you know, call me if you need help with her. I’m <em>always</em> happy to lend my expertise.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Everyone knows what it takes to get you under control, and I’ll tell anyone who asks.</em>
</p>
<p>She pushed past him, stepping around the table and clutching her coat and purse in her hands. There wasn’t time to put them on; there would never be enough time to get as much space between herself and Alec as she wanted.</p>
<p><em>I should have killed him, </em>she thought viciously, taking in lungfuls of frigid air, snow dappling her face and sticking to her eyelashes. <em>Right then, I should have bashed his fucking skull in.</em></p>
<p>Fingers brushed her arm. On instinct she startled, whirling to face the impending threat, half-expecting Alec to have chased her out into the street in an attempt to corner her—a thing that he had taken great joy in before, sweeping things off of the counter to <em>grab</em> and <em>pull</em> and <em>rip</em>—but it was Joseph. He waited two heartbeats before he reached again, his fingertips cradling the crook of her elbow.</p>
<p>It was a question: <em>can I?</em> <em>Will you let me?</em></p>
<p>“I wish he would die,” she said, without thinking, the words spilling out of her like a poison she just couldn’t hold in anymore. Whatever information Joseph had gleaned about her tumultuous marriage with Alec made him unbothered by this statement; he tugged her closer to him, the hand not holding her arm reaching up to brush the pads of his fingers across her pulse point.</p>
<p>He said, “I know.”</p>
<p>“Joseph—”</p>
<p>“Isolde.” His voice was low, the words murmured against her forehead. “Don’t explain.” <em>Because I already know,</em> is what he meant. <em>Because I already understand what’s going on here.</em></p>
<p>He tugged her coat out of her hands and pulled it around her shoulders. Bent like he was, leaned into her with something that she thought might be adoration, Joseph brushed their noses together. She felt tension flood her body; she was afraid that he might try to kiss her right then, of what she might do if he did while her body was brutalized by adrenaline, but he didn’t. </p>
<p>He just <em>held</em> her.</p>
<p>“Here,” Joseph said, taking her hand and bringing it to his neck until she could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his pulse under her fingers. “I’ve got you.”</p>
<p>It should have frightened her. Joseph’s intensity was an intimidating kind, but in these moments, the intensity was required to cut through the panic. It overwhelmed her fried senses, the neurons firing rapidly stifled and swallowed up by the looming responsibility to recognize his closeness. The smell of his cologne, the bump of their noses, the feeling of his stubble under her fingertips, his hands closing the jacket around her shoulders. All of it meant that her brain could no longer panic, and had, instead, something to occupy itself with.</p>
<p>“Can you take me home?” Her voice felt small coming out of her, like it belonged to someone else. A different Isolde, at a different place and time. The girl she might have been or perhaps was before Alec.</p>
<p>Low, Joseph murmured, “Of course. Whatever you need.”</p>
<p>A sick, macabre part of her wanted to look back behind Joseph at the wine bar. It wanted to see Alec again—the way that you couldn’t stop yourself from peeking through your hands at the monster in a horror movie, the way that you couldn’t look away from a brutal car crash on the highway. <em>Sick,</em> she thought dizzily. <em>He made me sick.</em></p>
<p>“Take me home,” she said, more firmly this time.</p>
<p>“I’m trying,” Joseph replied. His voice was so soft that she almost had to strain to hear it over the pounding of her heart. His hands came to her face, cradling. “You have to let me.”</p>
<p>Isolde nodded, swallowing back what adrenaline insisted on leaking into her brain. She hadn’t realized that she was bolting her feet to the floor, gritting her teeth against the gentle pressure of Joseph’s hands, until he said, <em>you have to let me.</em> </p>
<p>“Okay,” she murmured. He nodded and brushed the hair from her face. This time, his guiding pressure actually registered in her brain; when he nudged her away from the bar and down the street to his car, she moved, instead of digging her heels in.</p>
<p>When they reached the vehicle, he opened the passenger door for her and waited for her to climb in before he leaned down.</p>
<p>“I’m—” Isolde started, the words shredding in her mouth before they got out of her. <em>I’m sorry</em>, she wanted to say. “About—the bar, I—”</p>
<p>“I told you, don’t explain yourself,” Joseph insisted, tucking her hair behind her ear. There was something almost earnest about his gaze now as he watched her, her heart thrumming violently in her chest with a different mantra now. <em>Same, </em>it said, when Joseph’s fingers grazed her cheek, tilted her chin up. <em>Same as us. Ours, too. He’s our kind.</em></p>
<p>“There’s plenty of people I wish were dead, too.”</p>
<p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p>
<p>
  <em>Shoes, clothes, charger, phone. No phone?</em>
</p>
<p>“Where did he put my phone?” Isolde muttered, searching through the suitcase on the bed. An array of clothing was laid out, but not yet folded; in fact, the only things that were <em>packed</em> yet were all work things that she’d have to take with her. Joseph would probably be furious—he had, in fact, specifically insisted that no work come on the vacation—but better than anyone he knew what it was like to rely on John for things. Which was that, if you liked things done to the standard that Joseph and Isolde wanted them done to, you <em>didn’t</em> rely on anyone else. Least of all John.</p>
<p>“Soli…” It was Joseph’s voice coming from the bottom of the stairs, not questioning but asking. Beckoning. <em>You’re taking too long.</em> “Dinner’s getting cold.”</p>
<p>“Where’s my phone?” she called back, pacing around the other side of the bedroom. “I’m trying to pack it up for tomorrow so that I don’t have to worry about it.”</p>
<p>A beat, where Joseph was likely collecting his patience, passed. “It’s down here. You left it on the counter.” And then: “Come eat, won’t you?”</p>
<p>He was doing that thing where he phrased it as a question and meant it as a statement. Joseph had learned, in a very short period of time, that she didn’t like when someone told her what to do; as petulant as it was, she’d buck against something like that desperately until it felt like her idea all along.</p>
<p>Isolde sighed. “Yes, I’m coming, Joseph.” One more up-and-down the stairs, ten more minutes of packing, and then she’d be content enough to sit down and eat.</p>
<p>“Full first name?” came the leisurely reply from downstairs. “My, you <em>are</em> in a mood tonight.”</p>
<p>Isolde busied herself with folding clothes, a smile fighting its way onto her face in spite of Joseph’s insistence that she was “in a mood”. She wasn’t; if he wanted to believe that, he was certainly welcome to, but she wasn’t in a mood. She was <em>thinking.</em></p>
<p>So she put folded clothes over the work files and said, “Joseph, light of my life; the sun which my planet orbits; the fabric by which the stars are made…”</p>
<p>“This sounds more like the Isolde I’m used to.” His voice was closer now, coming from the doorway, and when she looked over her shoulder at him he said, “And definitely not coming to eat.”</p>
<p>“Do you go by Joe?” she asked lightly, dropping the last of her clothes in the suitcase.</p>
<p>Joseph wandered across the master bedroom until there wasn’t any space left between them; his hand came up to her face, trailing the slope of her cheekbone. “I certainly do not.”</p>
<p>“So, definitely call you that, then.”</p>
<p>“You are testing my greatest virtue,” Joseph replied, leaning down and kissing her. Just the once, though; long enough for her to want to lean into it, and not long enough to be satisfying. He pulled back just so far as to let their lips brush when he said, “Come sit down.”</p>
<p>Skimming her fingers along his chest, she asked playfully, “What are you going to do if I say <em>no?”</em></p>
<p>The blonde eyed her amusedly. “John was right. You really don’t like being bossed around, do you?”</p>
<p>“How dare you say those words, in that order, in my presence,” Isolde murmured without heat. “You know I can’t stand to have someone stroking his ego by admitting he’s right about something.” A low laugh slipped out of Joseph and he carded his fingers through her hair, letting the pads of his fingers skim the back of her scalp as he kissed her temple.</p>
<p>She loved it. She loved when he did this; Joseph was so tactile, taking every opportunity to connect them through touch, like she grounded him. Like she was something precious that he wanted to enjoy every chance he got.</p>
<p>“You are the only one I’ll say something to more than once,” he said, his voice pleasantly low. “But luckily for you, I find your obstinance endearing.”</p>
<p>“If it helps,” she countered, “I don’t mind if <em>you</em> boss me around. Mostly. Why don’t you give it another try?” That wasn’t true. She did. But she liked the way it made Joseph’s ego inflate the second he did, even if it was for something stupid.</p>
<p>“Sweet girl.” His voice was a pleasant purr against her skin. “Always threatening me with a good time.”</p>
<p>This made her laugh. Joseph kissed the slope of her cheekbone, and then the corner of her mouth, his fingers sliding through her hair affectionately. She finally relented and allowed him to nudge her out through the bedroom door, making her way down the stairs. It wasn’t her first time going on a vacation with a… Friend of the romantic persuasion, but it <em>was</em> her first time going on vacation with a friend of the romantic persuasion <em>back home.</em> She’d never introduced her parents to any man that she’d dated—not only because they were eleven hours away by flight, but because there just hadn’t ever been anyone.</p>
<p>Joseph was—different. But she had always known that; she had always known that he was an exception to a lot of people’s rules, not just her own, and she was violating cardinal rule number one of her own personal regiment, which was “don’t mix business and pleasure”. Pursuing a romantic relationship with your business partner’s older brother didn’t exactly adhere to that, did it?</p>
<p>“It’s going to be hot,” Isolde said, “and the flight is long, and the traffic is going to be… Well, insane. But my parents will definitely insist on feeding us the second we get there—”</p>
<p>“That’s fine.”</p>
<p>“—so what I’m saying is, if I blink at you five times in rapid succession, we need to make up an emergency to leave. What’s the emergency? We have to have one ready and on hand, otherwise my dad will see straight…”</p>
<p>Her voice trailed off. The kitchen was not as she’d left it, a little over an hour ago, to pack. In fact, it was dimly lit by candles, the dining table sporting a bouquet—not roses, like someone might have expected out of a scene like this, but calla lilies. Her favorite.</p>
<p>“What—” She stopped in the doorway, but Joseph sidled up behind her, hands on her hips and nudging her forward. “Joseph, <em>what</em>…?”</p>
<p>“I told you.” He kissed just below her ear, reaching for her left hand and bringing it up to kiss her knuckles there, too. “You’re the only person that I’ll say something to more than once—”</p>
<p>Isolde felt <em>something</em>—something both hot and cold, sharp and too soft—whip through her immediately at the leading tone. “You’re not making any sense,” she managed out, trying to dig her heels in, but Joseph wasn’t trying to push her in any further so it didn’t matter.</p>
<p>“I want you to marry me.” Joseph said against her skin, and he slid something cool and metal along her finger. “I want you to be my wife, Soli.”</p>
<p><em>A ring,</em> her brain said, the alarm bells ringing immediately. <em>That’s a ring. Holy shit, that’s a really big fucking ring. On your finger. Holy shit.</em></p>
<p>“Isolde.” Joseph turned her around to look at him fully now, brows furrowing at what was surely a look of panic on her face. What she thought had to be the assumption that they were only nerves, he continued, “I know that—”</p>
<p>“No.” The word came out of her mouth before she could stop it, the single-word-statement fleeing her mouth in her panic. She thought she’d feel regret about it, but she didn’t; only about the way Joseph looked at her when she said it.</p>
<p>He seemed to be gathering himself for a moment, like maybe he didn’t think that she meant it, that she was playing some kind of joke on him.</p>
<p>Joseph began, “If this is your idea of—”</p>
<p>“I mean it,” Isolde interjected. “I won’t marry you, Joseph. So—no. Take this—” She fumbled the engagement ring off of her finger and put it into his hand like it was a cursed item, like she couldn’t get it off of her finger any fucking quicker. “Take this back. And—that’s it, I just don’t want it.”</p>
<p>His eyes were fixed on her, no longer soft in their romanticism, but hard, steely. “And why <em>not?”</em></p>
<p>She swallowed up a sound that probably would have been close to agony. It <em>was</em> agony, having to explain to him; her mind vibrating at an entirely different frequency than his, the panic settling into her bones. She needed to say, <em>I’ve been married before you and I know what it’s like to give yourself over to someone, </em>she needed to say, <em>I won’t fucking let someone own me, Joseph Seed, </em>she needed to say, <em>I told you two months ago I never wanted to get married again, and you just apparently didn’t listen, which is reason enough.</em></p>
<p>“I don’t need to justify myself to you,” is what she said instead, going to step around him. But his hand caught her wrist, the carefully manicured and polished exterior fading into something that hit an edge of tension, <em>pulling pulling pulling</em> until she thought she was going to watch him finally snap.</p>
<p>But he said, “You <em>do</em>.”</p>
<p>“Fuck. You,” Sol bit out. The anger flared hot in her chest. It was, at last, a familiar emotion; anger and not panic, filling her up. Drowning out the sadness that tried to rip through her like a wildfire. “I <em>told</em> you. I told you I wasn’t doing it again.”</p>
<p>“I’m different.” Now it was <em>his</em> turn to sound almost petulant, his grip on her wrist like iron. “You said that yourself. That we’re—”</p>
<p>“Not different <em>enough,</em>” she snapped. “Apparently, anyway, since you couldn’t wait longer than two months to try and put your name on me, could you?” Trying to pull her wrist out of his grip proved futile, and she managed out with the timbre of her voice vibrating with poison, “And get your fucking hand off of me, Joseph.”</p>
<p>He stared at her for a long moment before he finally loosened his hold on her wrist. Enough to let her pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t. Isolde stayed firmly put, willing her legs to carry her somewhere else—back home would probably be the best thing, driving the hours it takes between Hope County and the nearest lick of civilization.</p>
<p><em>You said that yourself. I’m different.</em> </p>
<p>He was. She wanted to say, <em>you are, Joseph</em>, but she didn’t, because she knew that it would only start them in another circle again, a snake swallowing its own tail in an endless cycle. </p>
<p>So they stood there for a moment: neither of them saying anything, her last threat hanging, jolts of anger fizzing and popping in the air between them. Isolde’s hand slid just enough to catch at the wrist in Joseph’s grip, and he took her hand instead, then, tugging lightly to draw her close to him.</p>
<p>Testing her out. Feeling her boundaries. She’d basically said <em>I’ll tear your hand off if you don’t listen to me, </em>but he didn’t think she would. And now he was going to slam those buttons—slide his fingers under her edges until he found the exact farthest he could push her.</p>
<p>“I won’t,” Joseph said, very low and quiet, “let you do this to me, Isolde.”</p>
<p>She had been expecting something else. Something sweet, maybe—Joseph liked to do that. <em>Sweet girl,</em> he’d say to her, and if anyone else had tried to call her girl they would’ve gotten dumped, but with this viper it was different. It didn’t feel condescending when Joseph said it to her. It just felt <em>covetous</em>. </p>
<p>And that’s what he was best at: bite, and then soothe. It made his sharp edges more tolerable. It made them <em>nice.</em> But now he was all sharp edges, only hard lines, catching on her and tearing every time the two of them made contact. It had always been this way; John had said that he thought they were poorly matched, and at the time, she’d written it off as John not liking to share even his business partner with his older brother. </p>
<p>Now more than ever, she thought that he was right. They were both too unwieldy, too wretched, to let someone else sway them from their opinions.</p>
<p>“You are so fucking dramatic,” Isolde said, pulling her hand out of his grip at last and turning on her heel. “We don’t need to be married to be together. And your antiquated notion—”</p>
<p>“There are things I want to accomplish, and they’re best done with a <em>wife</em>—”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, did you hear a period punctuating the end of my sentence? Don’t fucking talk over me, Joseph,” she snapped. For one split second, she saw something vicious flicker over Joseph’s face—just for that one, tiny second—and then he cleared his face. </p>
<p>After a second of silence, of waiting for Joseph to try and get the last word in, she finished, “You don’t know me well enough to want to marry me. And—marriage is a scam, anyway. I would know, I handle nasty divorces every day at work.” <em>I’ve handled my own nasty divorce.</em> “If you’re looking for a pretty housewife to sit around statuesque and have dinner ready for you when you come home, then—well, then you <em>really</em> don’t fucking know me.”</p>
<p>Joseph was silent. His jaw worked, his eyes sweeping over her, tension radiating off of her until he said, “I guess I don’t.”</p>
<p>“I guess so,” Isolde agreed. Another moment of silence, where it felt like they were circling each other like wounded dogs, and she said, “I’m going to go—”</p>
<p>“Fine,” he interrupted, the thing that he knew she hated. “When you’ve calmed down, we can discuss this like adults.”</p>
<p>“There isn’t anything to <em>discuss</em>,” she said, gathering up her coat and keys and walking up the stairs. “I’m not going to change my mind, Joseph.”</p>
<p>From the kitchen, she heard him agree, “Not yet.”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Isolde snapped. “You make me so fucking mad.”</p>
<p>He didn’t respond to that; she heard him moving around in the kitchen, gathering things and putting them away as she hauled her suitcase down to the front door. He met her at the door, opening it for her—which pissed her off half as much as him putting an engagement ring on her finger.</p>
<p>It shouldn’t have, but it did. It was like he was saying, <em>I know you’ll be back, so go on.</em> <em>Feel free to leave whenever you’d like.</em></p>
<p>Like the gentleman he was, he carried her suitcase out and loaded it into the car, lingering around the driver’s side as she threw her coat inside. And then <em>she</em> was the one waiting, unsure of what to do; the muscle memory of her body said, <em>kiss him goodbye,</em> the fury in her brain screaming to get in the car and leave.</p>
<p>“When you change your mind,” he reiterated calmly, reaching up and brushing the hair from her face, “you know how to get in touch with me.”</p>
<p>Isolde’s gaze flickered at the touch, Joseph’s warm, heady cologne washing over her as the space between them vanished. She said, the amber and vetiver of him welling up inside of her and filling her like a wineskin, “I won’t.”</p>
<p>His lips grazed her temple, fingers brushing her jaw. “I love you, Isolde.”</p>
<p><em>Fucking narcissist, </em>she thought, venomously, pulling away from him. Her gaze drifted over his face, trying to find something familiar, something that reminded her of the man she had thought she had loved—but who had clearly proven he was incapable of thinking of anyone but himself.</p>
<p>So finally, she bit out, <em>“This</em> is what you think love is?”</p>
<p>She wanted the words to sting. She wanted them to wipe the tranquility off of his face. He had always been so composed; the wretchedness in her wanted to shake it out of him, making him squirm like he was so good at doing to her.</p>
<p>But he didn’t; his mouth ticked upward in a serene smile, eyes fixed on her as he stepped back from the car. He seemed confident in himself—that it <em>was</em> love, that she would see it was. One day.</p>
<p><em>I won’t let you do this to me, </em>he’d said.</p>
<p>“Have a safe drive,” he called, when she slammed the door. It was an hour to the airport; an hour, and then however long of a flight, however long she’d have to wait for the next flight heading out to Georgia.</p>
<p>Joseph turned and walked back inside as she pulled out of the driveway, as carefully as she could through the snow; in her rearview mirror, she saw him stop at the door and turn to look, eyes fixed on her.</p>
<p>
  <em>There are plenty of people I wish were dead, too.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'm on <a href="www.consumedkings.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>, come by for a good time or a long time or both! i'd be happy to chat ♡</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. after you've gone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard."<br/>Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>big big chapter this time, both literally and metaphorically! there's a lot of moving parts in this so i apologize in advance if it feels a bit slow, but everything felt really important to include and i wanted to make sure nothing got left out. thank you so much to my beta <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starcrier/pseuds/Starcrier">starcrier</a> who literally proofed this beast with all of the love in the world.</p><p>i won't ramble on too much, but i did want to say that the reception for the last two chapters really made my whole heart just explode and i wanted to thank you all! what an incredible experience it is getting to write these two gigantic idiots. &lt;3</p><p>warnings: canon-typical religious blasphemy, though it's in full-force here with joseph so i wanted it to be noted in the warnings. there are mentions of self-harm, both past and implied presently, and they're not treated very lightly. elliot is having a hard time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“I saw her. Our mor.”</em>
</p><p>Helmi cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear, scribbling absently on the side of the file she’d continued nosing through once she’d gotten back to the bunker. Like this, she felt far from Kajsa—farther than she had in the longest time. Maybe since they had welcomed her into the Family.</p><p>“Did you?” She stretched back against the truck’s seat, feet kicked up on the dash as she scanned the page, going over her own notes. <em>Starvation, classical condition. On animals and people?</em> In the back seat of the truck, Peaches rumbled her discontent at lack of attention; Helmi reached back and scratched her ears until the rumble turned into what she recognized as a more contented purr.</p><p>
  <em>“Yes. She is doing well. Her color is just as Ase said, you know. Perfectly balanced. Poor John—I can see his suffering.”</em>
</p><p>Helmi <em>hmm</em>’d, the thoughtfulness matching the patient rumble Peaches had rewarded her affection with.</p><p>
  <em>“Is Deputy Pratt behaving?”</em>
</p><p>“I should hope so. He has no reason to have any loyalty to the Seeds, outside of fear.”</p><p>There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Helmi was sure, in the very marrow of her bones, that Kajsa was smiling.</p><p>
  <em>“And what did you give him, Helmi? To make him loyal?”</em>
</p><p>She considered. “A more impressive fear.” And then: “Also, I said I wouldn’t kill him.”</p><p>
  <em>“That is just a more impressive fear bundled up pretty, my heart.”</em>
</p><p>“Mm,” Helmi replied in agreement. Whatever the case, she thought that Pratt had more to gain from fucking the Seeds over than he did by fucking <em>them</em> over—and that’s why Kajsa entrusted this sort of thing to her and didn’t do it herself, after all. If it had been Kajsa here, eyeing Pratt like a piece of lunchmeat, she’d have him drugged to the gills and barely aware of what was going on. Not being of <em>use.</em></p><p><em>It’s why we make a perfect pair, </em>something inside of her said, <em>joy shared, joy doubled. </em></p><p>
  <em>“Don’t rest on your laurels.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sorrow shared, sorrow halved.</em>
</p><p>Helmi sighed. “I’m not.”</p><p>
  <em>“Keep putting pressure. I want them squirming, hjärtat.”</em>
</p><p>“I will.” She paused, sitting up in the truck and glancing out at the remaining members of the Family. Those that hadn’t given themselves a swift, clean death. After Kian’s face was crushed in, Kajsa had gathered them all and said, <em>It’s going to be harder, from here. If you feel you cannot do it, if you think that you do not have the strength to answer our calling, then it is your time. We love you.</em></p><p>It had been the time for many. Morale had been—and still was—low. Ase’s death first, gut-wrenching and tragic, and then Kian’s; worse than the last. Worse, because while he had been grieving, while he had been suffering, he had still been their second-in-command. Meant to be infallible, even more so than Ase. He had been meant to carry them into their next life, after It was appeased. Contented. After It had turned the world to winter.</p><p>Now, more than ever, with only a handful of them left to huddle around their fires and sleep in the backs of cars, and kiss and laugh and hug each other in the inky black night, they felt like a ship adrift at sea.</p><p>Kajsa’s voice hummed in her ear, plastic and metal vibrating where it lay trapped between her head and shoulder. Helmi’s gaze swept away from the remaining Family members and turned her gaze back to the file. The Seeds were deeply rooted in this place—the tendrils of a tree that might be dead at the trunk but stayed for many decades after, if it wasn’t ripped out at the base.</p><p>
  <em>“Did you hear me, Helmi?”</em>
</p><p>“No,” she replied truthfully. “I was distracted.”</p><p><em>“I am coming back,” </em>Kajsa reiterated patiently.</p><p>“The others will be happy.”</p><p>
  <em>“And what about you? Will you be happy?”</em>
</p><p>Helmi paused. She closed the file, dropped it back onto the dashboard and cranked the seat back so that she could stretch a little, her eyes tracing the tinny, ancient ceiling of the truck she’d lifted from Eden’s Gate. She exhaled, once, and then held her breath; closed her eyes, felt the ache of it between her ribs.</p><p>
  <em>“I sense before me a lost lamb.”</em>
</p><p>“Not lost,” Helmi replied, her lungs tight. “Just—thinking.”</p><p>
  <em>“Must I divine the dark cloud over your soul myself?”</em>
</p><p>She allowed her body to take air back in. “I wonder,” she murmured, “if it will be enough to appease the Father.”</p><p><em>“Do you wonder,” </em>Kajsa hummed, <em>“or do you worry?”</em></p><p>A moment of silence stretched. And then, the rich, melodic timbre of the Hierophant’s voice came through again, idle and pulled snug against her ear, like Kajsa was really right there again to say the words against her skin: <em>“What will you do, if Staci Pratt defects despite your Machiavellian threats of harm so great he should never consider to incur it?”</em></p><p>“I don’t know,” Helmi replied uneasily. “It would depend on if he brought <em>mor</em> and the interloper, or if he just—”</p><p><em>“The answer, hjärtat, is that you do not know, because it has not been revealed to you yet.”</em> Despite the interruption, Kajsa’s voice was pleasant and serene. Ever since Ase’s death, she’d been more tempered—like she was playing a role, filling a void. Helmi almost missed her cruelty. Like it was a creature comfort. <em>“There is no use in wondering, because we will never know before it is our time to. We want for much. Whether or not we are given it remains to be seen. Our Father is a most...”</em></p><p>Her voice trailed off. Helmi tried to think of what words Kajsa might use; <em>stringent, </em>perhaps, <em>ambitious, </em>or even <em>enigmatic—</em></p><p><em>“Wretched god,”</em> Kajsa finished, a grin in her voice. <em>“It does so love to watch us toil, does It not?”</em></p><p>“Yes,” she answered after a moment, because <em>wretched</em> resonated somewhere in her soul, somewhere in the marrow of her bones, reminding her why this had felt like home ever in the first place. Wretched, to watch them suffer, to give them so little information and let them suffer wreck after wreck.</p><p>In front of her, the dark of the forest swelled, breathed, reminded her: failure was not an option. Theirs was not a benevolent, forgiving God, the kind who would forgive sin if one only asked—the Father was <em>wrathful, </em>was <em>vengeful, </em>and would make them suffer their insolence and their ineptitude.</p><p>
  <em>“I should get going. I imagine our mor will not be far behind, thanks to your ingenuity, and I want to be in Hope County to welcome her.”</em>
</p><p>“I am,” Helmi blurted out after a second of hesitation, “happy, that you’re coming back.”</p><p>There was a pause on the other end; and then, a soft breath, where Helmi thought maybe Kajsa was smiling again.</p><p>
  <em>“Ingenting under solen är beständigt, my heart.”</em>
</p><p>The call clicked. Only empty air and static, then, buzzing faintly in the ear, the words dead in her mouth before she’d had the chance to say them back.</p><p>
  <em>Nothing under the sun is lasting.</em>
</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Elliot was going to be sick. Nevermind the morning-after-dread of realizing she had caved in on her most basest animal desires—<em>What, the man who’s perhaps lied to you the most tells you he’s never thought you’re crazy, and you let him fuck you? Come on, Elliot,—</em>but listening to Pratt ramble nervously into the phone about how he didn’t realize everyone was gone, nobody stopped to look for him, nobody tried to call, he thought she had left too and she had, where was she? Was she okay?</p><p>“I’m fine,” she managed out. Guilt ripped through her sternum, burning hot and shameful. <em>I’m fine, Pratt, don’t worry about me. Got well and truly railed last night, it’s fine. Oh, also, I’m going to have a baby. And I’m married. Don’t worry, you found out about the same time as me, just off a few weeks.</em> “I’m at my mom’s.”</p><p>
  <em>“In Georgia?”</em>
</p><p>“Yeah.” Elliot swallowed thickly. “Are <em>you</em> okay? You sound like shit.”</p><p>Pratt laughed uneasily on the other end of the line. <em>“I’m with, uh—I’m with them.” </em>He paused. <em>“The Seeds. And their—the lawyer lady.”</em></p><p>“That doesn’t tell me if you’re okay,” she reiterated, more firmly.</p><p>He laughed again. <em>“I’m on the phone with you, aren’t I?”</em></p><p>Frustrating. They might all be looming around him, waiting to hear what she was going to say. It was a trap, of course. Jacob or Joseph had done enough digging around in her past to find out they’d gone to school together, had gone to school dances, had basically dated—and they knew she’d evacuated the entirety of the Resistance otherwise. They were clearly laying a trap to get her to come back. But for what?</p><p><em>“Hey, um—”</em> Staci cleared his throat. <em>“Ell, there’s—a lot of bad stuff going on. There’s these people, and they’re—they’re just killing people, left and right, gutting them and sticking them up and—Jesus, they fucking split Miss Mabel open like a fish, and I’m—”</em></p><p>Oh, there it was; the sickness, the violent urge to throw up. The Family was supposed to be dead. They had been killing themselves off in pairs after Kian’s death, weren’t they? Elliot blinked rapidly, trying to calm the furious beating of her heart, the way it slammed against her rib cage and demanded penance.</p><p>Calloused fingers swept her hair to the side and squeezed at the juncture between her neck and shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. She closed her eyes tight, willing herself to accept it for what it was—John, comforting her, because even now he knew her well enough to see she was spiraling.</p><p><em>I can’t, </em>is what she needed to say. <em>I can’t come back, Staci, I can’t, not me and not my baby, my hands are already covered in blood I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—</em></p><p><em>“—I’m so fucking scared, Ell.” </em>Pratt’s voice wobbled on the other end, hitting straight at the fresh welt of guilt in her chest, ripping and tearing at it.</p><p>
  <em>I can’t—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t want to be alone—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m sorry I can’t I’m sorry—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“—I’m sorry—”</em>
</p><p>“I’ll come,” she blurted out, her voice hoarse, the burn behind her eyes and in her nose a threat of oncoming tears. She couldn’t stand it—couldn’t bear to hear him like this, when this whole time he was supposed to have been safe. She’d let him down, and while she had a responsibility to herself, the responsibility to the others had always come first.</p><p>And, better still, was the tiny, tiny fragment of hope that the dark-haired woman with a mouth like broken glass would be left behind, too. The dog with the man’s face and the strands of her hair glinting between Its bloody teeth would stay here, in Weyfield. It would wait for her, but perhaps there would be some peace there, too.</p><p>
  <em>It waits for you, It waits for us all, It will have you. As It gives, so too does It take.</em>
</p><p>“Tell them I’m coming back.” Elliot bit the words out through her teeth. “And tell them if I come back and you’re hurt, or dead, or—if there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to fucking kill them. Okay?”</p><p><em>“No need,”</em> came Jacob’s voice over the phone. <em>“You’re on speaker, Deputy Honeysett. We’re well acquainted with your particular brand of mania.”</em></p><p>“Great,” she snapped, feeling a vicious flush spread through her cheeks despite the fact that she didn’t feel bad at all for what she’d said. “You thought I was fucking manic before? I had nothing to lose, then. Imagine how much worse I’ll make your life now—”</p><p>John’s hand squeezed again. This time, she shot him a venomous look over her shoulder and shrugged him off. Elliot knotted her fingers in Boomer’s fur and prompted again, “Is that clear?”</p><p>The eldest Seed sounded like he was smiling when he said, <em>“Crystal, Deputy.”</em></p><p>“Good.” She paused. “And don’t fucking call me that. I’m not a deputy, anymore.”</p><p>
  <em>“Sure thing, hellcat.”</em>
</p><p>“Pratt—”</p><p>Jacob’s voice came again: <em>“Have a safe trip.”</em></p><p>The phone call beeped once, twice, three times, and then ended. The hard knot of dread in the pit of her stomach did not lessen; she hit the redial button, and it went straight to voicemail. Again, and again, and again, her hands shaking as she thought <em>wait, I didn’t get to say goodbye, I didn’t get to promise I’d be there, I’m coming Pratt, I’m coming please don’t be worried,</em> before she shoved the phone into John’s grip.</p><p>“Call him back,” she demanded, “make him pick up the phone—”</p><p>“Elliot,” he began, “if he turned the phone off, I can’t—”</p><p>“Fuck you!” she snapped, coming to a stand and raking her fingers through her hair. “You fucking <em>knew</em> they had Pratt, didn’t you? You knew that he was still trapped there and he didn’t get out, and you fucking left him there, so that you could pull me back if it didn’t go the way you wanted—”</p><p>John stood too, setting the phone on the bedside table and lifting his hands. The gesture was meant to calm and soothe, <em>see my hands? Here they are, no threat here</em>, but all it did was make her <em>angrier, </em>stoke a fire inside of her that had apparently lain dormant since she’d left Hope County.</p><p>Elliot smacked his hands down. “Don’t treat me like some fucking animal, John.”</p><p>“I’m not,” he defended quickly, dropping his hands all the way back to his sides when Boomer barked twice, sharp and accusatory, hackles lifting. “I didn’t know Pratt was still there. I thought the Resistance had got him out, and I didn’t bother asking.”</p><p>“You <em>should</em> have bothered—”</p><p>“I’m <em>just</em> as displeased as you are,” John interjected dryly, the dark coloring of his tone implying that he was—but for perhaps a different reason. It struck her that he might, in fact, be so displeased because he was aware of their history, on some level. It did feel a little gratifying to know that he was squirming for such an insignificant reason.</p><p>“You fuckhead,” she spit. “You put a fucking baby in me and you still have the insecurity of a middle school boy.”</p><p>“We both know,” he replied tartly, “that our baby is not in any way binding you to me, <em>Elliot. </em>And is it so shocking, considering that the thing that I want <em>most</em> in the world is for you to come home, and you fight me at every turn—”</p><p>“Hope County <em>isn’t</em> my home anymore—”</p><p>“—but Staci Pratt calls you and cries a little into the phone, and you’re jumping at the bit to go back?”</p><p>“<em>Fuck. Off,”</em> Elliot bit out between her teeth, face flushing. “Pratt is my <em>friend,</em> which is more than I can say for <em>you.”</em></p><p>“Right,” John agreed, “because you let the person you hate fuck you.”</p><p>Her mouth clamped shut, biting and swallowing back a wad of venom she thought might make her sick if she let it out. There was too much of it, the things that she wanted to say—<em>fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, I fucking hate you, you make me sick, if anything is wrong with Pratt I’ll kill your brothers and then I’ll fucking kill you too</em>—but she didn’t say any of it.</p><p>Instead, she said, “Get out. I’m getting changed and we’re leaving.”</p><p>John sighed, passing a hand over his face for a moment like maybe he regretted what he’d said. “We can’t.”</p><p>She felt her voice spike, near incredulous hysteria: <em>“Pardon?”</em></p><p>“Old Father Time of the Job Ineptitude mentioned he had Federal agents showing up out of nowhere,” he snapped. The words had her stomach twisting; her first thought was a tiny spike of happiness at the idea of Cameron Burke, and then it was quickly doused by the sharp reminder that she’d stolen his gun and ran with it. Because he thought she was crazy. Because he was going to put her behind bars.</p><p>John continued, “He seemed to be implying it was somehow related to <em>me</em> showing up, and by proxy you, and if we up and leave—”</p><p>“It’ll make it look more suspicious,” she finished, feeling a little numb. “Okay, so—what? How long do we have to wait?”</p><p>He scratched his cheek, his eyes flickering absently over the duvet on the bed, like he was trying to map it out in his own head. No doubt, he was trying to operate on multiple timelines—the timeline of Not Raising Suspicion, and whatever timeline Joseph had given him.</p><p>Some things really <em>did </em>never change.</p><p>“After your mother’s Christmas party,” he ventured finally. “It’s not quite Christmas—could look enough like we’re sticking around for enough holiday cheer to be passable before leaving again. Pritchard’s clearly not unfamiliar with your mother’s...”</p><p>His voice trailed off. He looked to her as though asking for permission to say something critical; when Elliot remained stonefaced and immovable, he finished, “...temperament.”</p><p>“Nice save.”</p><p>“Well,” he replied, humble as ever. “Anyway, that probably wouldn’t rouse suspicion. If it <em>is</em> Burke, and your house isn’t getting stormed right now, I have to think he’s here on unofficial business. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just come and bust the door down and grab you?”</p><p>Elliot hoped that was the case. She hoped this meant that Burke was just trying to find her, and was not hunting her down at the behest of the government. If there was one thing that Joseph had been right about amidst all his doomsday-saying and whatnot, it was that according to the news, there was a big chance the government had bigger things on their hands. Bigger concerns than a tiny town in Montana and its cult inhabitants.</p><p>“Get out,” she said again. “So I can change.”</p><p>“You—” John sucked in a little breath, stopping himself from what was inevitably going to be stirring another argument; he lifted his hands again, this time in surrender. “Alright, Ell. I said you’d get anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”</p><p>“Chop-chop.”</p><p>“I’m going. Mind if I pull some clothes on before I walk out into the house owned by your mother, where she has almost assuredly been sipping her vodka martini since four AM?”</p><p>She felt her eyes narrow. “Fine.”</p><p>Turning, she crossed the bedroom into the master bath and shut the door behind her, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes until fine webbing scattered across the dark of her eyelids. This was the <em>last</em> thing she needed—and it felt, surely, traitorous and awful to think it, to think, <em>this is the last thing I need, Pratt needing rescuing, </em>when the only reason she’d felt comfortable leaving Hope County in the first place was because she <em>thought</em> the only people who were left were cultists.</p><p>Elliot dropped her hands from her eyes, blinking a few times until her vision cleared. In the mirror—much as it had been since coming back from Hope County—stood a girl that she thought looked like a stranger. Blushed cheeks and kiss-reddened lips, her neck littered with love marks, the healthy glow blooming up from beneath the <em>WRATH </em>scar on her chest, exposed by her loosely cinched robe.</p><p><em>That’s not me, </em>she thought, pulling absently on a strand of red hair and swallowing thickly. <em>I’m not that girl.</em></p><p>Her face was softer than before, more lively color rising up around her eyes and cheeks and mouth. More of her freckles had come out. There was a tiny, tiny—almost imperceptible—slope to her tummy, now, too.</p><p><em>Not me, </em>came the thought again, more distressed this time, her brows pulling together at the center of her forehead. <em>That’s not me. I’m not that girl. Who are you, pretty girl? Not me.</em></p><p>The woman and her dark hair—dark dark dark, like an oil slick, looming in the corner of her mind. Her mouth red as pomegranate and stretched like broken glass.</p><p>
  <em>I hear stress is bad for the baby.</em>
</p><p>A knock came at the door. Elliot blinked, feeling unwell and unsure of how long she’d been standing there, her hand having dropped to cup the slope of her stomach experimentally. Women did that, right? When they were pregnant? Did it make them feel closer to the baby? Did it make them feel more protected?</p><p>Did she feel safer?</p><p>“Ell,” John said, nudging the door open, “your mother is...”</p><p>Pulling away from the door, she cinched the robe tight and busied herself at the sink, turning the water on. As he stepped into the bathroom, she could see John was now fully-dressed, freshly-showered. She’d been standing in front of the mirror trying to recognize the person staring back at her long enough for him to do <em>that, </em>it seemed.</p><p>“That was a quick shower,” she said briskly, splashing her face and rubbing absently at her cheek. She could feel John’s eyes on her through the mirror, even though she refused to meet them.</p><p>“I’ve always preferred it that way,” he replied casually. And then: “Get distracted?”</p><p><em>Yes, </em>she thought, but didn’t say, because then the things he’d said last night that had made her feel sane and normal wouldn’t mean anything anymore. John would have said <em>I don’t think you’re crazy</em> and he’d have to take it back, because if she told him there was a stranger standing in her mirror, he <em>would</em> think she was crazy.</p><p>“It’s weird,” is what Elliot offered after a moment, trying to find a way to be honest and redirect, “to see a baby bump. Even if it’s small.” She cleared her throat and fished her toothbrush out of the holder. Continuing briskly, she added, “And the scar. I spent a lot of time avoiding it.”</p><p>John’s expression had done that funny thing that she supposed was softening at her words. He stepped forward; the ghost of his fingers trailing her ribs over the robe made her skin prickle with goosebumps.</p><p>“I’m not done being mad at you,” she warned him, eyes flickering to meet his gaze through the mirror.</p><p>“I know,” he replied, tone agreeable. “I just—”</p><p>The brunette paused then, waiting for her to stop him before he smoothed the warmth of his palm over her hip, across the expanse of her abdomen. It was painfully intimate in a way that didn’t imply sex—intimate, in the way that she felt <em>seen, </em>that she could see the relief coloring the edges of his expression.</p><p>John pressed his mouth to the back of her shoulder. “Just missed you,” he murmured after a moment. “Getting to touch you. Even just like this. <em>Especially</em> just like this—”</p><p>Something panged sharp and unforgiving in her chest. “Well, don’t get used to it,” she replied tightly, brushing his hand away from the baby bump after letting it linger for a moment. “And I don’t remember inviting you in.”</p><p>“Your mother was asking after you,” John said, by way of explanation, looking pleased from their little moment. <em>Fucker.</em> “She wanted to know if you’d be drinking coffee this morning. I think her exact words were, ‘Mr. Seed, would you ask my daughter if she’s going to take the risk of drinking coffee this morning? I know she shouldn’t be, with her <em>condition—’”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Ugh.”</em>
</p><p>“‘—but since we’re going to be picking out her dress for the Christmas party today, I could make an exception—’”</p><p>“Fuck me,” she muttered, wetting her toothbrush and putting the toothpaste on it. “Ask her if she can make it extra strong.”</p><p>“I’m actually enjoying being out of your mother’s ire for a minute.”</p><p>Elliot rolled her eyes. “No coffee for me.”</p><p>“Got it.” John headed for the bathroom door, and then paused again, turning to look at her. “Ell,” he began, “I really didn’t know—you know, about Pratt.”</p><p>That pesky little flutter of something agonizingly sweet—<em>softness</em>—in her chest flared again.</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” is what she said, before she turned the toothbrush on and started scrubbing her teeth. That seemed enough of an answer for John, for once, because he left and closed the door quietly behind him after deliberating.</p><p>The minutes, and hours, and days—well, day or <em>two</em>—until they got back to Hope County were going to be something close to agony. She could only hope they had taken her seriously when she told them that she’d better come back to a Pratt in one piece.</p><p><em>I don’t want to be alone. </em>Pratt’s voice echoed hauntingly in her head. She thought she could remember the sound of voices in the background—a woman’s, at least. Faith? Or John’s friend, Isolde? Surely Jacob and Joseph were there listening to him call her, too. She’d been so fucking stupid to let them get to her.</p><p>No, not stupid. Not stupid to want Pratt to feel safe, and like someone was coming back for him.</p><p><em>I’m sorry, </em>she thought tiredly, as though the words could somehow get to him. <em>I’m sorry, that it’s me you have to wait for.</em></p><p>
  <em>I’m sorry that I won’t be the person you remembered.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m sorry.</em>
</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>“You did so well, Staci.”</p><p>Faith’s voice jarred him out of the weird pause in time he’d been marinating in. It had been just a few seconds, maybe—Jacob and Joseph were talking in low voices, the dark-haired woman standing at the point of their little triangle with her arms crossed and her brows furrowed—that his brain had shut off, the distress in Elliot’s voice echoing eerily in his head. She’d sounded so upset. He wouldn’t have called, wouldn’t have started to ask her to come back, if he’d known how much she didn’t want to.</p><p>But that wasn’t true, either. He would have called, because Helmi had said, <em>Either the Seeds are going to drag her back by her hair kicking and screaming, and eventually kill her, or she comes back and we keep her safe.</em></p><p>‘Safe’ had been the keyword there. He didn’t know how much he could take the woman at her word, but considering everything—well, it was better than trying to take the Seeds at their word.</p><p>Faith’s hand touched the back of his, startling him into a tiny jump. He cleared his throat. “Um—I wasn’t...Acting.”</p><p>“Still,” she replied sweetly, “I know it must have been hard.”</p><p>She was so polished—skin all dusted silver and moonlike, flushed with a little high color in her cheeks, her blonde hair tumbling around her face loosely. In the chapel, the air was tepid at best, and frigid at worst, keeping a little pink in everyone’s faces.</p><p>It was strange to look at her now. Her hands were soft; her skin unblemished. Just hours ago, he’d been sitting in the car, noticing the same kinds of details about Helmi—about how <em>human</em> she looked, hand slung over a steering wheel, her cracked phone plugged into the truck’s stereo and her chipped nail polish and the scars and bruises littering her knuckles. The way she’d shot him a toothy, wolfish grin as she cranked the volume up and said, <em>What, Staci Pratt, you don’t like Blue Öyster Cult either?</em></p><p>In comparison, Faith didn’t feel human at all. She felt like a <em>dream.</em></p><p>“Can—” Pratt came to a stand, rubbing his palms on the tops of his thighs. “Can I go? Lay down, or something?”</p><p>Three pairs of eyes snapped to him. The dark-haired woman, who Jacob kept referring to as <em>Sol, </em>completely ignored his question and looked at the redhead to say, “Has someone checked him for head trauma?”</p><p>“I’m not—concussed!” Pratt snapped, his voice wobbling. “I’m just <em>tired.”</em></p><p>Jacob’s eyes narrowed. He looked like maybe he wanted to say something, and then reconsidered, saying, “Dr. Hale will take a look at you and then sure, Peaches, you can rest.”</p><p>It took every ounce of his self-control to <em>not</em> tell Jacob to stop calling him that. He had to remember that as far as they were concerned, he <em>hadn’t </em>been taken in by the “other side”, he’d been sitting scared and meek like a good boy at the compound.</p><p>Pratt’s eyes darted, catching sight of the woman that Jacob gestured to with a free hand. Right. The Fall’s End vet. She’d been here for what—a little over a year? He couldn’t tell if she was being held <em>captive</em> by Eden’s Gate or if she was there by her own volition, though the few times he’d run into her before she’d seemed like a pretty even-keel person. Didn’t she have like, two degrees or something? What <em>was</em> she doing here?</p><p>He made his way to the back of the church, meeting the curly-haired blonde halfway. Definitely looked too clean to be a cultist. “You’re not a people doctor, right?” he asked uneasily, watching as her head cocked to the side and her mouth quirked in a bit of amusement.</p><p>“No, Mr. Pratt, I am not a people doctor.” She fell into step beside him, opening the chapel door for him. “But I do have first aid training, which I think is about as good as you’re going to get around these parts.”</p><p>“I didn’t get a concussion.”</p><p>“That’s good. When was the last time you ate?”</p><p>His mouth twisted in a frown, trailing after through the snow as the cold began to sink into his bones. She seemed awfully confident moving around the compound, if she wasn’t part of the cult. But if she <em>was</em>, what was she doing here? How did—?</p><p>Pain bloomed behind his eyes, a fresh headache sinking into his nerves. Too much. It was too much confusion, about Elliot (pregnant? And John Seed was with her?) and about the Family and about all of these—these <em>people</em> that he didn’t really recognize hanging around the Seeds. And the compound was so quiet. Where was everyone? Had the Family really taken that many of Eden’s Gate out?</p><p>“Mr. Pratt?”</p><p>The woman opened a door into a bunkhouse that glowed with golden light from within and radiated heat. Two long-haired shepherds lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, lifting long faces and peering at him with dark eyes. He stepped inside and cleared his throat.</p><p>“Uh, a day, maybe,” he replied after a minute. Taking a seat when she gestured for him to, he shifted uncomfortably as she set a first aid kid on the cushion beside him and pulled one of the wooden chairs up in front of him.</p><p>“And slept?” She blew a curl out of her face and opened the kit, fishing around to find some alcohol wipes and Neosporin. He guessed he was a bit worse for wear than he’d thought, initially; not that he’d been taking great care of himself, even when it had just been him and Dani. She’d encouraged him to stay <em>high, </em>not stay <em>better</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, I’m such an idiot.</em>
</p><p>He let out a little hiss when she pressed one of the alcohol wipes to a cut on his cheek.</p><p>“The same,” he replied, reaching up and brushing her hand away. “What—what are you doing here, doctor?”</p><p>“Arden is fine.” She sat back, regarding him curiously. “I’m cleaning that cut, Mr. Pratt. It looks agitated.”</p><p>“No, I—” Pratt let out a little breath. “I mean <em>here</em>. In the compound.”</p><p>Arden stared at him for a moment, like she didn’t understand <em>why</em> he was asking her that question. She lifted her hand and arched a brow inquisitively; when he nodded shortly, she leaned forward again, balancing her free hand on his shoulder and using the other to gently dab at the cut.</p><p>“I’ve spent the last month or so holed up in my house,” she explained to him. “Me, and the dogs, I mean.”</p><p>A little smile ghosted over her lips, and despite himself, Pratt felt a wry smile tugging at his own. It was difficult <em>not</em> to feel relaxed, when Arden moved with so much surety. In the glow of the radiators ticking away and the warm yellow light, especially.</p><p>“Mostly reading. They had assigned one of the boys to me—Santiago. I think he’s John’s man. He doesn’t strike me as one of Joseph or Faith’s.”</p><p>Pratt made a little noise of agreement, because he knew exactly what she was talking about. She dropped the alcohol wipes to the side and reached over for the Neosporin, dabbing some onto her finger and then reaching back up to resume her work.</p><p>“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “That you got—stuck, I mean. Here.”</p><p>“Oh, you don’t need to apologize, Mr. Pratt.”</p><p>“I feel partially responsible,” he admitted, feeling some of the tension flee his shoulders. “You know, being law enforcement and all—”</p><p>“Hold still, please.”</p><p>“Sorry,” he said again. “I guess what I mean is—sometimes it feels like a real failing on our part. All of those people, I...”</p><p>He paused, and Arden leaned back, giving him a pat on the knee. “That’s alright, Mr. Pratt,” and her voice bloomed with comfort. “Where was I?”</p><p>“Up at your house, with the dogs and maybe one of John’s men.”</p><p>“Right. I wasn’t allowed to leave, you know, on account of the—” She gestured with an elegant hand. “Cult running amok.”</p><p>He nodded. “Cult number two.”</p><p>Arden smiled, and continued, “And then just a few days ago, after one of them started killing those folks in Fall’s End, Jacob came up to get me.”</p><p>The way she said it made him feel, a little uneasily, that maybe he was misreading it. <em>Jacob came up to get me </em>did not sound like <em>Jacob came to pick me up because I’m his prisoner.</em></p><p>And then she said, “He was worried, you know. Only having a radio up there. I know how to use a gun, but I’d prefer not to, if I don’t have to, and—”</p><p>“Sorry,” he blurted out, “but are you—”</p><p>She blinked light eyes at him, almost owlishly, like she didn’t understand the question. “Am I...?”</p><p>“With? Them?” Pratt gestured towards where the chapel lay, beyond the bunkhouse walls. “The—Eden’s Gate?”</p><p>“Oh!” Arden laughed, almost sheepishly; he felt a nervous little laugh bubbling out of him too, almost hoping for the relief of her assuring him that she was, in fact, <em>not</em> in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.</p><p>She came to a stand and pulled a bottle of ibuprofen and a granola bar out of the kit, dropping them in his hand.</p><p>“Eat the bar before you take the ibuprofen,” she told him, “or it’ll—well, I’m sure you know. Upset stomach, and all that. Do you want to take a shower?”</p><p>Pratt’s fingers curled around the ibuprofen bottle. “You didn’t answer my question.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Arden replied, not sounding very sorry at all, “I guess I just thought it a bit silly. Who else would I be “with”?”</p><p>His stomach somersaulted, sinking viciously. Suddenly, the granola bar—which had certainly been sitting in the kit for who knew how long—looked even <em>less</em> appetizing than before. While his vision swam for a second, the woman carried on conversationally, as though she had not just revealed herself to—</p><p>Well, to be in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.</p><p>“But—they think the world is ending,” Pratt blurted out, lifting his eyes to look at her finally. “And—doctor, all the people they killed, and—”</p><p>“Don’t strain yourself, Mr. Pratt. You’ve been under quite a bit of duress as of late, I think, and it would be best to try and keep those stress levels down.” She moved to the small pantry beside the bathroom, shuffling around and producing a few towels, leaning into the bathroom to set them on the counter. “Though, you do bring up a funny point—have you been listening to the news? I suppose you haven’t. I remember listening to the news before all of this business went down and thinking that the world had ended a long time ago. We were just a bit behind, all the way out here. Do you want to take a shower?”</p><p>Blinking furiously, Pratt searched his brain for the answer; he muddled through the disappointment raking down his spine, the delicate little hope that had been fostered at the prospect of finding someone who was kind and not under the Seeds’ thumb being crushed beneath the weight of the reality of his situation.</p><p>“Yes please,” he managed out, his voice hoarse.</p><p>“Alright. Eat that bar first, so you don’t pass out in the hot water. And Mr. Pratt?”</p><p>“Y—” He had clumsily ripped open the granola bar and shoved half into his mouth, the fear of being seen as disobedient when Jacob Seed was within radius flickering like a wildfire through his body. He swallowed thickly, the dry food feeling like it was sticking to the inside of his mouth. “Um, yes?”</p><p>Her expression colored sympathetic, Arden reached down and fished a water bottle out of the case, dropping it in his hand.</p><p>“The honorific isn’t necessary,” she told him. “Remember, Arden is just fine.”</p><p>“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled. “I mean—Arden.”</p><p>She smiled, this time with teeth. “Good. You holler if you need me.”</p><p><em>I won’t, </em>he thought, even though she was probably preferable to anyone else coming to his rescue.</p><p>Maybe he really <em>would</em> rather be dead.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>Scarlet insisted that John stay at the house while they went to the boutique. It was all a big show of his mother-in-law attempting, he thought, to be polite, though she failed miserably at it; and as much as John wanted to argue that it would probably be best if he came along—considering their late-night visitor—he could tell when a battle was a lost one, and when it wasn’t.</p><p>“Do you think you can do that, Mr. Seed?” she asked, pulling the objectively ostentatious fur coat around her shoulders and buttoning it. “Remain in my home for a few hours, without causing me any problems?”</p><p>He said, “I think I can certainly give it a shot,” to which the blonde rolled her eyes.</p><p>“Please do more than that.”</p><p>“Rest assured, I am fully capable of behaving myself, Mrs. Honeysett.”</p><p>He couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Every second he spent in her presence, being reminded of how little she liked him given how much she didn’t know about him—or care to get to know about him, anyway—he thought, <em>I cannot fucking wait to get back to Hope County and the resurgence of the Family. I cannot wait until that is my only fucking problem.</em> Anyone else and she would have been <em>thoroughly </em>cleansed; clearly, Wrath ran in the family. Just the thought of it made his fingers itch.</p><p>Elliot had looked tired already, standing at the door and letting her mother go first. As soon as Scarlet was out the door, carefully picking her way down the front steps, John’s hand went to Ell’s hip; her lashes fluttered at the contact, but she didn’t jerk away; only tensed, considering the act of balking and pulling away from him but not yet committing. So there <em>had</em> been progress.</p><p>Her free hand came to his shoulder, resting there uncertainly. “Please don’t do anything to my mother’s house.”</p><p>“As much as I would love to, I will refrain from my wretched impulses. I am a man of God, after all.” He grimaced. “Do you think she’ll like me more if things are immaculate?”</p><p>“Ha-ha. She certainly will not.” She paused, letting out a little breath. “Okay. Back in an hour.”</p><p>He felt a smile tug at his mouth. <em>“Ambitious.” </em>His hand drifted to the small of her back, and he said, “Ell, before you go—”</p><p>“John, I don’t—”</p><p>Elliot turned to look at him at the same time that he stepped forward, closing what little distance there was and <em>rapidly</em>; she blinked, and her eyes flickered to his mouth instinctively, like she was expecting it—like she’d gotten used to the affection when he closed in on her like that. The gesture sent a little thrill through his stomach.</p><p>
  <em>Mine.</em>
</p><p>“Don’t let her stress you out,” John murmured, keeping his voice low between just the two of them. “You’ll look good in whatever you pick.”</p><p>She turned her face away, cheeks going pink. “What’s this, huh? Still trying to make up for being a complete fuckhead this morning?”</p><p>He grinned. “You really <em>have</em> gotten brattier.”</p><p>“<em>Goodbye, </em>John,” she said, and then he leaned in and kissed her; the connection made every part of him sigh, collectively, as though he’d just been <em>waiting</em> for it.</p><p>Waiting for her.</p><p><em>Yes yes yes, </em>it all said when she didn’t pull away, his fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater at the small of her back as her hand slipped from his shoulder to his chest, <em>yes, mine all mine.</em></p><p>Elliot did pull back after a moment, putting a bit of space between them—though it seemed more to catch her breath than anything else. She only pulled back enough for their eyes to meet; John’s gaze darted downward, watching pearly teeth as they tugged at her lower lip, worrying it there for a moment.</p><p>“To answer your question,” he continued as casually as he could, “that’s not how I intend on making that up to you.”</p><p>“So you agree?” Elliot asked. Her voice came out evenly, despite the color blooming underneath the freckles on her cheeks. “You were being a complete fuckhead this morning?”</p><p>“I did <em>so</em> miss our banter.”</p><p>“Bunny,” Scarlet called impatiently from the driveway, “the boutique is going to get <em>crowded</em> if we don’t get there when it opens.”</p><p>“I’m coming!” Her gaze darted back to him. “The best way to make it up to me would be to say the words out loud,” Elliot informed him as she inched toward the door. “So that baby can hear them, too. At least you’ll have been more honest around our child than with me, if we’re keeping a running tally, and we <em>should</em>—”</p><p>He tugged her back from the doorway again, lighter, more playful as he went in to kiss her a second time; but she pulled back, just out of his reach, hand planted firmly on his chest.</p><p>Elliot said, “I told you not to get used to it.”</p><p>“I’m not,” he answered lightly, “just taking what I can get.”</p><p>
  <em>“Elliot.”</em>
</p><p>“Coming!” Elliot cinched her coat up more snug, closer to her throat and where the scar lay expertly over her sternum, and snagged the keys off of the counter to the beat-up Honda Civic John had lifted from Eden’s Gate. Right. He couldn’t <em>wait</em> to hear Scarlet’s input on <em>that</em> car ride.</p><p>The redhead made it down two steps before she paused, turning and looking at John and going, “Um, bye,” in a tone that was more sheepish than he anticipated; it was almost <em>shy, </em>and it caught him so off-guard that he didn’t even get the chance to muster a response before she was making her way across the snowy driveway.</p><p>“Drive safe,” John called, once he’d gathered his senses a bit more. Elliot glanced at him over her shoulder and then ducked into the car, closing the door and beginning to pull her way down the drive. He waited until they’d turned onto the freshly plowed road before he turned back into the house and closed the front door behind him.</p><p>Boomer had seated himself in front of the window, letting out a little whine as his tail swept along the floor.</p><p>“C’mon, furry sentinel,” he sighed, not risking putting his hand within biting reach. “Just you and me today.”</p><p>The Heeler whined again, apparently thoroughly displeased at this news, and stayed rooted at the window to watch for his girl to come home.</p><p>Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he hit the redial button on the number they’d gotten a call from that morning and waited as the phone rang, pacing around the polished living room. It rang enough times as he idly adjusted glasses on a bar cart that he thought for certain no one would pick up—and then the phone clicked, and a warm voice came through.</p><p>
  <em>“Hi, John.”</em>
</p><p>He blinked in surprise. “Hello, Faith. How’d you get this phone?”</p><p>
  <em>“Isolde passed it to me when she saw your call. She wanted me to tell you that she’s too busy to talk to you.”</em>
</p><p>A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like everything’s operating as normal, then.”</p><p><em>“I suppose.” </em>Faith paused. <em>“Are you coming home soon?”</em></p><p>“I am.”</p><p>
  <em>“With Elliot?”</em>
</p><p>“Yes, she—” John cleared his throat and made an effort to sound as unbothered as possible. “She’s very concerned about Deputy Pratt’s well-being.”</p><p><em>“We’re taking good care of him. Will you tell her that? Better than he’d be getting out <strong>there,</strong></em> <em>anyway,” </em>and she said the word <em>out there</em> with such a surprising amount of venom that John realized he’d nearly forgotten about the Family’s reappearance. Well, there couldn’t be that many of them left, could there?</p><p>And then Faith said, <em>“A lot of us are dead, John.”</em></p><p>His hand went to the mantle for a little support as he leaned against it. There was a bit of a bite to Faith’s voice—almost accusatory. <em>A lot of us are dead, </em>she said, as he stood in the plush home of his mother-in-law while they went dress shopping for a Christmas party. It occurred to him that none of his siblings—nor Isolde—were aware of what they’d been dealing with the last couple of days; they must have felt like he was getting off easy.</p><p><em>“The Father says we only have a little while longer,” </em>she continued, <em>“and that if we can’t fix this in time, we won’t wait for you. He’s been alone, a lot. Talking to God. Praying for more time, for you.”</em></p><p>The words made his stomach wrench, a little. He would have felt worse if he didn’t know already that there was an exit plan in place, one that Elliot was already on board for. “We’re only here for another day, and then we’re leaving” John replied. “The sheriff mentioned some—Federal agents. I don’t want to rouse suspicion and bring them down on us again.”</p><p>
  <em>“Do you think it’s Burke?”</em>
</p><p>“Maybe.” He pressed his forehead against the stone mantle. “Probably. No one’s come storming in yet.”</p><p><em>“I hope it’s him. I hope he follows you all the way back here.”</em> And then, darker: <em>“He has a lot to apologize for.”</em></p><p>John made a low noise of agreement. It felt good to have a conversation with someone who seemed to be on the same side as him, for once—no bickering with Scarlet, no bickering with Elliot, and no bickering with Isolde. As of late, it seemed he was only capable of incurring arguments; though that did seem to be changing quickly with his wife.</p><p>
  <em>“We’re having a service soon. Did you want me to tell Joseph anything?”</em>
</p><p>“Ah, no, that’s alright. I just wanted to let you know we had a plan.”</p><p>
  <em>“Do you want to talk to him?”</em>
</p><p>“No,” John said again, more quickly and with a bout of unease sprinting up his spine. “No, that’s alright. I’ll let you go. We’ll be home soon, okay?”</p><p><em>“Alright.”</em> Faith’s voice lightened when she added, “<em>Tell Elliot I said hello.”</em></p><p><em>Bad idea, </em>he thought, but said, “Of course,” and hit the end call button. It wasn’t until his entire body relaxed that he realized he’d been fully tensed, waiting for some kind of verbal blow—and though there had been a few, he felt...</p><p>Fine.</p><p>
  <em>I feel fine.</em>
</p><p>It was fine. Everything was fine. Joseph was praying for more time for them. They’d make it back without a hitch. And then, when the world ended, and took the remainder of the Family with them—</p><p>Well, that would be all the better.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>“My children.”</p><p>The heaters rattled, clicking in the lukewarm air in a steady, mechanical heartbeat. Candles lit throughout the chapel drenched the members of Eden’s Gate in a strange, golden glow, and as Joseph’s voice carried all the way to the back where Staci sat between Jacob and Arden. He could see in the front row sat Faith and the dark-haired woman—who he’d come to understand was <em>Isolde Khan, </em>John’s old business partner—and there was a moment where Joseph’s eyes fixed on her before they lifted back to the congregation.</p><p>“God has truly been testing us,” the man continued, pacing away from the altar the front, hands folded behind him. “As you know, I have spent a lot of time in silence and solitude so that I might be the most open to receiving from Him. For the longest time, I thought—had we done something wrong? Had I led us astray? Were we being punished?”</p><p>An uneasy murmur rippled throughout the crowd. In the front, Pratt could see Isolde writing something down in a notebook; he wished he was closer, so he could see what it was—what was so interesting that she was taking notes now, of all times? What could she possibly be doing?</p><p><em>Preparing for the worst-case scenario,</em> he thought idly, shifting in his seat. Jacob’s eyes cut over to him and he cleared his throat. The shower had done nothing to ease his nerves.</p><p>“But I’ll tell you—devout, and loyal, we have not been left to the wayside.” Joseph stopped, pressing a hand onto a woman’s shoulder, squeezing. “I have heard His voice. I have received His word. We are not only followers of God’s word—we are His soldiers.”</p><p>The noise that passed through the congregation this time was brighter, agreements—it must have felt good. Not just passive sheep, to be shepherded; <em>soldiers.</em> Capable of violence. And they <em>were.</em></p><p>“We are His warriors.”</p><p>The woman Joseph’s hand was on was getting teary-eyed, and when he departed from her to sidle his way down the aisle, she all but collapsed in on herself, folding in half to bury her face in her hands. Another attestation of acknowledgment rippled around him, louder.</p><p>“This world is a wretched, vile machine, taking in and spitting out sin, flooding our garden with locusts,” the Prophet continued, his voice lifting in volume. “We are, my children, the only people who have the great fortune of seeing this—of <em>knowing</em> what no one else in the world seems capable of understanding. God has <em>told me</em>—”</p><p><em>Sick, </em>Pratt thought dizzily, <em>I’m going to be sick.</em></p><p>“—that a life of bliss awaits us, if we can only...”</p><p>Joseph paused, as though he needed to look for the words, as though he hadn’t been reciting this all day in preparation for the sermon; Pratt knew that he <em>must, </em>the assured cadence of his voice coming so firmly that there was no way it wasn’t rehearsed.</p><p>“...look past the dread, and the <em>fear,</em>” he continued earnestly, allowing his hand to be taken by another member, “because fear is the language of the Devil—if we can look past it, and dedicate ourselves fully to His cause, there is only happiness and serenity waiting for us on the other side of this.”</p><p>“How do we do it, Father?” a man to the other side of Jacob cried out, his voice a panicked fever-pitch. “How do we show Him we’re devoted?”</p><p>Joseph’s head turned. His gaze landed on Pratt, lingering before lifting to the congregant. “We’ve got to stop the machine.”</p><p>Optimism flooded the crowd. An easy solution. <em>Stop the machine, </em>like it was nothing. Like they weren’t dealing with a group of people who killed as easily as they did.</p><p>“Throw your bodies upon the gears, upon the wheels, upon <em>all</em> the apparatus,” Joseph intoned dutifully, pacing back toward the front. “Whatever it takes to bring the machine to a grinding halt. We can no longer passively take part in the End—we are warriors of God, and our divine right is not instinctively endowed. It is <em>earned. </em>And we will show that we have earned it by exterminating these interlopers invading our garden.”</p><p>Pratt’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Eden’s Gate members came to a stand around him; loomed in his vision; eclipsed what little murky light reached him. Cheers and applause rolling around in his head. He thought for sure he’d heard this all somewhere, before—</p><p>Oh, yes. <em>And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all!</em> The irony of Joseph lifting lines from an activist’s speech was not lost on him.</p><p>A heavy hand gripped the collar of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. “Stand up,” Jacob muttered. “Good posture’s important.”</p><p>He steadied himself on the pew ahead of him. Amidst the chatter of the congregation, eventually quieted down by Joseph’s patience at the front of the chapel, he could hear renewed excitement. More life had been breathed into the peggies than he’d seen in a long time—well, considering that he’d only been here roughly a day, and the whole place felt like a ghost town even now, that was saying something.</p><p>“Please,” Joseph called lightly, “join me in prayer.”</p><p>Heads bowed. Pratt let his chin drop to his chest, but his eyes didn’t close; his gaze darted to his right, where Arden stood, hands clasped politely in front of her. Her head did not bow for prayer.</p><p>He was only vaguely aware of the words coming out of Joseph’s mouth, redirecting his eyes back to the floorboards beneath his worn shoes. <em>Lord, we pray that you might show us guidance and wisdom in these uncertain times; show us how to be most like you, for only you are perfect...</em></p><p>Elliot was going to come back to this. She was going to come back to this, and he was going to have to figure out how to get her out of here without any of the Seeds noticing. Helmi had said, <em>meet me out back, by the river, in three nights, </em>but he couldn’t keep track. Had it been one night? Two? Less than one?</p><p>“I am your Father,” Joseph was saying. “You are my Children. Together, and only together, will we march through the Gates of Eden.”</p><p>A rousing <em>amen </em>echoed around him. They milled about, chatting excitedly—perhaps delighted to have a focus for their ire, for their agitation. The members of Eden’s Gate looked worse than Pratt remembered. Dirtier. Thinner. More exhausted. He thought that it must be nice to have a purpose—</p><p>
  <em>Fuck me, not that shit again.</em>
</p><p>He filed out of the row behind Arden, and with Jacob behind him, following her to the front where Isolde and Joseph stood. They were speaking in low tones, bundled close together; she tapped her ten against the front of her notepad in what looked like an agitated tick, but he couldn’t hear what it was she was saying. By the time they were close that he might have heard, Joseph lifted his head from where he’d bent a little to speak closely and looked at him, smiling.</p><p>“It was nice to see your face in the crowd this day, Deputy Pratt,” he said, his voice warm. “Did you enjoy the sermon?”</p><p>Pratt opened his mouth, and then closed it. He didn’t want to play this game.</p><p>“Go on, Peaches,” Jacob prompted, clapping his shoulder.</p><p>The nickname sparked something angry inside of him, like dragging a match against the sandpaper side of the box. <em>If there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to kill them, </em>Elliot had said.</p><p>Pratt turned his gaze to Joseph. “I thought the Mario Savio part was a bit much.”</p><p>A surprised, abrupt laugh barked out of Jacob. Joseph’s expression remained flat and serene. In fact, the only person who seemed to have any negative opinion about his words was Isolde, narrowing her eyes as she turned to look at him fully.</p><p>“We’re not exactly looking to hit notes with the intellectuals in the crowd, <em>Deputy Pratt,” </em>she informed him coolly. “They don’t care who said it first. They care who said it <em>better.”</em></p><p>“Y—” Pratt swallowed. “Okay, well—”</p><p>“<em>‘Okay, well’</em> shut the fuck up,” she snapped. “Or I’ll have Jacob take you out back and put you down like Old Yeller.”</p><p>“You can’t,” he protested quickly, “Elliot said—”</p><p>“Do you think I care in the <em>least</em> what some woman five states away said?” Isolde cut over him quickly, the elegant, soft roll of her accent a strange and unsettling juxtaposition to her words. “I’m getting this ship in fit fucking order, and that means I <em>don’t</em> need you inspiring dissent. <em>Anyone</em> with an opinion that is less than glowing, radiant, <em>gorgeous</em>—they get taken care of, whatever that means. Got it?”</p><p>Pratt closed his mouth tightly, until the pressure was beginning to build between his molars. <em>I just have to make it until Elliot gets here, and then—and then I’ll—then I can get—</em></p><p>He took in a little breath. “Yes.”</p><p>“Peachy.” Isolde flashed a smile that was all-too-saccharine, and then turned to Joseph. “Let’s sit.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>They departed to a pew just to the left of them. Jacob was grinning at him, wolfish.</p><p>“Thought about telling you she wrote it,” he said, “but that was <em>much</em> more entertaining.”</p><p>“You look pale, Staci,” added Arden, her voice light as it redirected from Jacob’s apparent joy at his suffering. “Maybe you should go lay down. I don’t want you straining any of those injuries.”</p><p><em>Okay, </em>he thought, and maybe the words came out of him but he couldn’t tell; he couldn’t tell anymore, but he did want to go lay down. Lay down, and close his eyes, and sleep until Elliot got back.</p><p>He’d never been happier at the prospect of seeing an ex-girlfriend.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>When they arrived at the boutique, Sylvia was standing outside, bouncing on the balls of her feet in what Elliot could only assume was an attempt to get warm. It was difficult, to focus on something as inane and arbitrary as <em>dress shopping</em> when she knew that Pratt was back in Hope County, dealing with God-knew-what the Seeds were throwing at him.</p><p>Well, the Seeds. And more. The Family, who were supposed to be dead, and—</p><p><em>I hear stress is bad for the baby.</em> A familiar accent, wasn’t it?</p><p>“Well, are you just gonna sit in there all day or what?” her mother asked, having stepped out of the passenger side.</p><p>“Did you invite Sylvia?”</p><p>Scarlet sighed. “I thought it might be nice, for you.”</p><p>It was an unexpectedly sincere gesture on her mother’s part. She swallowed a thick emotion down, clearing her throat and managing out, “It—is, mama, thank you,” before she got out of the car and took the keys with her, heading towards the front doors of the main street store.</p><p>“Howdy, Freckles!” Sylvia greeted her warmly, throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. “Been a few. Wyatt’s still got your Jeep, he’s been runnin’ it a few minutes a day to make sure the battery doesn’t go bad.” She smiled brightly, turning to Elliot’s mother. “Mrs. Honeysett, you look mighty lovely.”</p><p>“Thank you, dear.”</p><p>Sylvia tugged the door to the boutique open, ushering them inside so that she could trail in after. The inside of the store was toasty warm, making Elliot regret having worn a scarf, but it was too late now—the coat and scarf combination were doing the work to keep her scar covered.</p><p>“I just love this place,” Scarlet sighed, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. “What do you think, Elliot? Maybe something blue. I’d put you in green, but with that red hair, you’d look like a Christmas ornament. Blue’s a nice winter color—very fashionable.”</p><p>“Sure, mama,” Elliot replied, brushing her fingers along the silk of one of the dresses. The last time she’d been in anything that <em>blue</em> and <em>nice</em> had been back in Hope County. At her “baptism”. The same one Burke had been dragged to, the same one that John had held her under for just a little too long for, maybe distracted by the Marshal’s arrival back then.</p><p>“Psst.” The sound of Via’s voice caught her attention, pulling her from the waking memory. The blonde had pulled what appeared to be the <em>most</em> atrocious Christmas gown that could have been looked at off of the rack, holding it up and lifting her eyebrows as Scarlet chatted enthusiastically with the store’s saleswoman.</p><p>“Stop it,” Elliot said, fighting back a smile. “You’re not serious.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>dead</em> serious, Freckles.”</p><p>“It has mistletoe <em>on</em> it, Via.”</p><p>“How else am I supposed to fetch a husband, if not by readily-accessible entrapment?”</p><p><em>Well, </em>she thought a little dryly, <em>that is how John got a wife.</em></p><p>It was odd, to think of the moment with anything less than hostility—to have come to a point where there were things more pressing than a marriage that, in the end, might not matter anyway. John had said that he knew the baby didn’t mean she’d take him back; had acknowledged there was no guarantee. For once, he’d shown up in her life with every intention laid bare for her to see.</p><p>Maybe not <em>every </em>intention. But she’d root them all out, eventually, and pretend like it hadn’t become something of a game, to catch John in a lie and watch him squirm.</p><p>She let the boutique’s owner show her around, clearly making quite a show for her mother, and politely turned down any suggestions for a deep v or off-the-shoulder type of garment. Sylvia had picked out a few; most blue, some blush, a few red, and then loaded some into Elliot’s arms.</p><p>“Try ‘em on!” she chirped. “Yes, even the green ones. Maybe your mama doesn’t want an Elliot Christmas ornament, but <em>I </em>do.”</p><p>Elliot heaved a sigh, though it was only half-sincere—anything delivered with Sylvia’s bright, cheery smile, she was hard-pressed to feel anything less than good about. Maybe that was dangerous, to be so comfortable with someone.</p><p><em>Or maybe, </em>she thought, closing the dressing room door behind her, <em>that’s just how having friends are. You remember what that was like.</em></p><p>She did. As she undressed and zipped the back of one of the red dresses Sylvia had selected—thoughtfully aware of the fact that she’d want most of her chest covered—she regarded herself in the mirror. There was that stranger again, flushed cheeks and bright eyes staring back at her. A familiar nose shape, a familiar slope of her cheekbones—but the rest of her. Where had she gone?</p><p>With one hand she pushed the door open, the other one lifting the back train of the dress as little as she walked out. A grimace had planted itself on her face, even despite Sylvia’s elaborate applause at her appearance.</p><p>“Oh, bunny, you look <em>darling,”</em> her mother sighed, having turned to take a look. “What’s the matter? You don’t like it?”</p><p>“Not big on the sparkles,” she admitted.</p><p>“I like them. You’ve always looked good in red, though. That fair complexion of your father’s.”</p><p>Sylvia grinned. “Try on a green one. I wanna imagine how you’ll look on my tree!”</p><p>Elliot stuck her tongue out at the blonde, turning around and scurrying back into the changing room. There were a few more dresses—even a green one—that were in the running, but eventually, she’d settled on a floor-length piece, dark blue velvet and halter-topped to get the most sternum coverage. When she’d redressed and rejoined the group outside, her mother was beaming as she gossiped with the boutique owner.</p><p>“Elliot’s quite modest,” her mother said conversationally, “and she’s already married, you know.”</p><p>“Thank you, mother,” Elliot sighed, a little smile fighting its way onto her face.</p><p>“Whatever are you still wearing your coat for? Your face is all red.”</p><p>“I’m—” She paused, swallowing. “Still cold.”</p><p>Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Cold? It’s eighty degrees in here. And your face is all red.”</p><p>Sylvia had glanced up from across the store, neck-deep in dresses of a warmer shade. Elliot could <em>feel</em> the eyes on her—her friend, her mother, the boutique owner—and she cleared her throat and tugged absently at the tag on the dress.</p><p>“It’s fine,” she said after a minute.</p><p>“Well, at least take your scarf off.”</p><p>“I think it’s a lovely scarf,” the owner tried, a little helplessly.</p><p>“Mother, it’s—I’m <em>fine</em>—”</p><p>But her mother moved too quickly for her to realize what was happening; her mother’s hand unwound the scarf with expert ease, and then froze, her eyes fixed on what Elliot thought assuredly was the little of her <em>WRATH </em>scar, revealed.</p><p>Her stomach rolled. Heat flooded her body, worse than before—it was the kind of sticky-wet heat that came with the threat of throwing up, the kind that crept up the spine and gripped by the nape of the neck. Elliot felt her lashes flutter; she dropped the dress abruptly and yanked the scarf out of her mother’s hands to wind it securely around her neck again. The boutique owner had quickly turned to the clothing rack, as though something very emergent had occurred on the inanimate objects.</p><p>Stupid. She was so stupid. She should have just worn a sweater. She shouldn’t have looked at her scar that morning and thought, <em>maybe it is something to love, </em>she shouldn’t have ever risked the chance that her mother would see it, <em>stupidstupidstupid—</em></p><p>“My God,” Scarlet said tightly, the tone of her voice washing Elliot with shame. “What did you <em>do?”</em></p><p><em>I’m sorry, </em>she wanted to say, automatically. <em>Mama, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not good anymore, I’m not—</em></p><p>“Phew, I sure am dressed-out,” Sylvia announced, having come over. “I’ll have to go home and weigh my options. Ell, you wanna head outside for some air?”</p><p>“I think that’s best,” her mother replied curtly, before Elliot could even think to formulate a sentence. “I’ll finish up in here.”</p><p>She thought about trying to say something—trying to explain, maybe, what it was that had happened. But how could she? Her mother had suffered through the years she’d inflicted pain on herself, after daddy and after Mason, and she had told her mother she was better, now. Healed. Good. What could she say, to make it alright?</p><p>Because there was no world where she could say, <em>I didn’t want it, </em>and mean it.</p><p>Via’s hand fit snugly in hers, tugging her lightly out through the front door of the boutique onto the street. It wasn’t until she took in a lungful of cold, dry air that she realized she’d been holding her breath; her lungs ached, her head swimming, and she was gripping Via’s hand too tightly.</p><p>“Hey,” Sylvia said softly, “s’okay.”</p><p><em>It’s not, </em>she thought miserably, <em>it’s not okay, I’m not okay, I want to go—</em></p><p>Where? Where could she go?</p><p>
  <em>I want—</em>
</p><p>Nowhere? Anywhere?</p><p>
  <em>—to go—</em>
</p><p>“Home,” she managed out unsteadily, “I should go home—”</p><p>Sylvia gave her hand a squeeze. “You want I should give your mama a ride back to the house?”</p><p>“Yes.” She swallowed, sniffing. “Yes, please.”</p><p>“Okay, Freckles. Sure. You just—maybe you just take a little drive for yourself, collect your thoughts.” Via paused, and then leaned a little to catch Elliot’s eyes; though her vision blurred from the threat of tears, the blonde still smiled a little. “You gonna be okay all by yourself?”</p><p>It was a strange question to ask, but Elliot knew what she meant. <em>Are you safe? Alone?</em></p><p>“Yeah,” Ell replied in a thick, watery mumble. “I am.”</p><p>“Okay. Can you give me a call when you get home?”</p><p>She nodded weakly. Via pulled her into a hug, tight and gentle all at once, enough to make the dam break; just for a little, just for a minute, the tears streaked down her cheeks and caught up in the fabric of the scarf where it wadded against her jaw.</p><p>
  <em>My God, what did you <strong>do?</strong></em>
</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, pulling back and sucking in a sharp little breath. “Um, I’m really—s-sorry—”</p><p>But Via shook her head firmly and brushed some of the hair back from Elliot’s face, wet from her tears. “Don’t apologize. Go get a little breather.”</p><p>She fished the keys out of Elliot’s pocket for her, putting them in her hand and hesitating.</p><p>“<em>Promise</em> you’ll call,” she reiterated.</p><p>Elliot nodded. “I—I promise.”</p><p>“Okay. No take-backs.”</p><p>“No take-backs.”</p><p>Via gave her another hug before ushering her towards the car. As she climbed in and turned the key, her hands shaking, she thought about the way her mother had looked at the scar—with disgust. Horror. Shame. Via hadn’t looked at her like that, when she’d seen it. She’d seemed embarrassed, at having put Elliot in such a position; but not like <em>that.</em> She hadn’t looked <em>horrified.</em></p><p>John didn’t look at it like that. He’d spent a lot of time last night, tracing the shape of the scar with his eyes, with his mouth, reverent and adoring. <em>Makes you hungry, doesn’t it?</em></p><p>At least leaving would be that much easier.</p><p class="align-center">━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━</p><p>They came back separately.</p><p>When John heard the front door open, he’d been starting a pot of coffee in the kitchen. He poked his head around the archway to look out in the foyer, only to find Scarlet standing there, furiously unbuttoning her coat and dropping her gloves into the drawer. Two dress bags hung on the coat rack.</p><p>“Ell outside?” he asked casually, coming around.</p><p>“Certainly not,” Scarlet replied tartly. “She’s—”</p><p>And then the woman let out a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment—for the first time, Scarlet Honeysett looked to be <em>composing</em> herself, which he thought she was nearly incapable of losing sight of. It seemed even the impenetrable armor of the Honeysett matriarch had its own weaknesses after all.</p><p>His tiny little thrill at the sight of Scarlet looking troubled was short-lived, however, because she said, “My <em>daughter</em> walked into the boutique sporting this—wretched scar—”</p><p><em>Oh, </em>he thought, suddenly.</p><p>“—never been so humiliated in my whole life—”</p><p><em>Oh, no, </em>because he knew exactly what she was talking about and Elliot would be—</p><p>“—have <em>no</em> doubt, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet bit out viciously, “that scar is new and you have certainly not influenced her away from such activities.”</p><p>He needed to find Elliot. She would be distraught; why hadn’t she come home with her mother? And why wasn’t Scarlet more pressed concerning her daughter’s well-being?</p><p>“And where is she?” John asked, ignoring the stinging anger bubbling in his chest. <em>Wretched scar, </em>she’d said. Like it wasn’t beautiful. Like it wasn’t gorgeous. Like he hadn’t spent a whole night looking at it, running his hands and mouth over it, knowing that Elliot had looked at him and wanted it and <em>trusted</em> him and if there was something more devoted, it was carrying someone’s child. “Elliot? Where is she?”</p><p>“Taking a moment to regain her senses,” the blonde replied sharply. “She has vowed to be home soon. Mr. Seed—”</p><p>He had gone to reach for his coat, pausing at her words and looking at her expectantly.</p><p>Scarlet twisted the gloves in her hands for a moment, her brows pulling together.</p><p>“I just think,” she finally said, “that as her husband, you are responsible for her as much as I am. You have to be taking care of her when I’m not around.”</p><p>“I do,” he replied.</p><p>“Evidence says contrary,” Scarlet snapped. “She has come back to me with more—<em>damage</em>—”</p><p>The sound of a car pulling up outside snapped John’s attention elsewhere. He knew that if he stayed much longer in the conversation, they would be leaving sooner than what they had planned, if <em>only</em> because Scarlet wouldn’t tolerate him in the house for the things that he wanted to say to her. <em>Damage, </em>he wanted to say, <em>that is only as bad as it is because it’s compounding on your incessant need to brush aside her problems like they’re nothing, like she didn’t need help then.</em></p><p>“Excuse me,” he muttered, pulling his coat on and opening the door. The rush of cold air bit at his face and hands; Boomer came rushing out around his legs, springing down the steps and hurrying to the driver’s side of the Honda. John was only vaguely aware of the door closing behind him—and it didn’t matter, anyway.</p><p>She didn’t open the door when Boomer got there, scrabbling at it for her eagerly. She kept her hands on the top of the steering wheel and pressed her forehead into it, the engine ticking as it cooled. When John got there, he reached for the door handle to tug it open. Elliot hit the <em>lock</em> button.</p><p>“Ell,” John said, “open the door.”</p><p>She lifted her head tiredly from the steering wheel. Where her hand sat over the lock button, her fingers trembled a little, and her face was flushed—not with health, but with the sickly red of feverish, panicked crying.</p><p>“Baby,” he tried again, a little more urgently, putting his hand on the glass of the window, “Boomer wants to see you.”</p><p>Elliot’s eyes were fixed on his jacket. “Would you—” She stopped, her voice muffled by the glass, and then she took a deep breath and said, “Would you even be here if I wasn’t pregnant?”</p><p>“What?” John blinked at her.</p><p>“If I didn’t have the baby,” she tried again, her voice thick and watery with unshed tears, that pouty lower lip trembling, “would you have even come for me?”</p><p>He stared at her. It had never occurred to him, that there might be a world in her head where he didn’t come for her, where he didn’t find her, where he didn’t try and bring her back.</p><p>“Of course I would,” John said, drawing her eyes to him. “I love you, Elliot.” And then, more urgently: “I love you, with or without the baby.”</p><p>She looked away from him, then, staring out the other side of the window, fingers curling uselessly against the steering wheel even as the keys lay in the passenger seat—like she wanted to run. Like she wanted to floor it, and go somewhere, anywhere.</p><p>“Open the door, Ell.” He swallowed thickly. “Won’t you?”</p><p>The door lock <em>clicked</em>. He tugged at the handle and it opened with ease, Boomer instantly shoving his face into Elliot’s side and whining, tail wagging so furiously his whole body moved with it. John pushed the door open the rest of the way and reached for her, and her hand caught his wrist and pulled, and she buried her face into his chest and trembled like a leaf in a breeze.</p><p>“I’m so tired,” she moaned miserably into his chest, hiccupping with grief, “I want to go <em>home.”</em></p><p>John wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head and keeping her tugged close.</p><p>“I know,” he said. “We’ll go. We will, I promise, Ell, okay?”</p><p>“Please—” The redhead pulled back to look at him. “I can’t—you can’t—lie to me, anymore—”</p><p>“I know,” John said again, a little helplessly, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. She was clutching him so tightly he was sure her nails would leave marks on his skin, even through the fabric of his clothes.</p><p>“I won’t.”</p>
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